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*‘Late one evening, two pilgrima knocVsd at the 
cascle gate '* — Page 27. 




NEW YORK: ✓ 

p. J. KENEDY, 



Excelsiok Catholic Publishing House, 


5 BARCLAY STREET. 


S' J4 

Ci)'* 


AAiAred, ftccordini^ to Act of id tho yeftr 184S| 

By EDWARD DUNIGAN, 

Clerk's Office of the DutJ>ct Court of the Ualted Statoi IkB 
the Bouthem D^trict of New-Yoih. 


ByTrinttW 

D. C. Public Library 


OCT 2 1 1938 


I 



BOUT two cen- 
turies ago, there 
lived in the 
mountain hold 
of Falkenberg, the brave knight Theo- 
bald and his pious wife Ottilia. The 
knight was as good as he was brave. He 
took under his powerful . protection all 
who had any injury to complain of, and 
never asked even thanks for his aid. To 
make others happy, he thought, was an 
ample reward. In Ottilia the poor had a 

7 


THE CARRIER-PIGEON 


generous friend. She visited the sick in 
the neighboring valleys, and opened wide 
the gates of her castle to all who required 
and desired relief. Agnes, the only daugh- 
ter of this virtuous pair, followed from 
her infancy the example of her parents. 
When only eight years old, her greatest 
pleasure was to make others happy. No 
wonder, then, that this good family was 
universally respected and beloved, and 
that no person ever caught a glimpse ol 
the high towers of Falkenberg without a 
hearty blessing on the good people that 
dwelt within its walls. The blessing of 
heaven did visibly descend on Theobald, 
Ottilia, and Agnes. Their hands were 
ever open,^et they never knew want : 
they were as wealthy as any family in the 
land. 

One fine summer’s day, Ottilia and her 
daughter took a walk after dinner, in the 


THE CARRIER-PIGEON 


garden, whicli sloped down the side of 
the mountain. The passage to the garden 
was by a long flight of stone steps, de- 
scending from a door in the castle wall. 
The garden was well stocked with every 
thing that could please the eye ; here 
were clusters of budding roses, and flow- 
ers in all their varieties — long rows of 
pears with their silver blossoms, and blush- 
ing cherries peeping from beneath their 
dark green leaves. The mother and 
daughter stood, for awhile, near a fountain 
in the middle of the garden, amusing 
themselves with the play of the water, 
which shot up its crystal wreaths in the 
oright beams of the summer sun, and die- 
scended in a thousand diamond drops, 
glittering with all the colors of the rain- 
bow. Then retiring to a bower, shaded 
with the trellised and clustering vine, they 
began to make clothes for a poor orphan 


THE CARRIER-PIGEON 


girl. No sound was heard in the garden ; 
all was still and tranquil, save, now and 
then, the sweet song of the linnet on a 
bough of a neighboring tree, or the cease- 
less and monotonous splash of the distant 
fountain. 

As they were sitting together, some- 
hing flew so rapidly into the bower, that 
hey could not know what it was. Both 
ooked around in alarm, and instantly a 
large hawk darting down, poised itself on 
its broad wings at the entrance of the 
bower. But it flew off when it saw per- 
sons within. Agnes sat there so terrified, 
that she dared not look around her, to 
know what it was that took refuge in the 
bower ; but the mother, with a smile, said 
to her, “ Do not fear, it is only a poor bird 
that has fled in here from the hawk; 
look,” said she, pointing, “it is a snow- 
white little dove. In its fright, it took 
10 


THE CARRIER-PIGEON 


refuge there behind you/* She then took 
the dove in her hand, and casting an in- 
quiring glance at Agnes, said, “ I will roast 
it for you this evening/* 

“ Roast it ?’* exclaimed Agnes, seizing 
the dove with both her hands, as if her 
mother was going to kill it on the spot. 
“ Oh ! no, dear mother, you cannot be 
serious. The poor little thing flew to me 
for refuge — can I consent to kill it ? Oh ! 
how beautiful it is; white as the driven 
snow, and its little feet, red as glowing 
coral. Its poor heart beats ; and its in- 
nocent eyes are fixed on me, as if they 
would say — do not hurt me — No ! poor 
bird, I will not hurt thee. You sought, 
and you must have my help. I will take 
the best care of you.** 

“ Right, my dear child,’* said the moth- 
er, affectionately. “ You knew my wishes. 

I only wished to try you. Bring the bird 

11 


THE CARRIER-PIGEON. 


to your chamber and feed it. We should 
never spurn the unhappy when they seek 
our aid. We must be kind to all that are 
in grief, and have pity on animals them- 
selves.” 

By the mother’s orders a little dove- 
cot, with red roof and green lattice- work, 
was prepared, and placed in a corner of 
Agnes’ chamber, where she fed the dove 
every day with clean corn and fresh 
water, supplying it also with sand. It 
soon became accustomed to Agnes, and 
grew tame and domesticated. When she 
opened the door of the little cage, it 
would fly out and pick the corn from her 
hand. In a short time it became so per- 
fectly content, that it showed not the 
slightest wish to recover its liberty. 

At break of day, while Agnes was yet 
asleep, the dove would fly towards her 
bed, and give her no rest until she arose 

13 


THE CARRIER-PIGEON. 


and gave it food. Agnes complained to 
her mother of this annoyance. “ But I 
know,” said she, “ how to prevent the 
restless little thing from disturbing my 
sleep. I will fasten the cage door every 
night, and keep it locked up until I awake 
in the morning.” “Oh, no,” answered 
me mother, “ rather let the dove teach 
vou lo rise early in the morning. Early 
rising is good for the health, and cheers 
and contents the mind. Surely, you ought 
to be ashamed if you arose later than a 
dove.” Agnes obeyed her mother’s advice, 
and always arose early in the morning. 

One day Agnes was sitting near the 
window, sewing. The window was open, 
and the dove, which had been kicking 
some crumbs at her feet, suddenly flew 
out, and lighted on the next house. Agnes 
was alarmed, and screamed aloud. Her 

mother ran to know what was the matter 
2 


13 


THE CARRIER-PIGEON. 


“ O, my dove !” said Agnes, pointing to 
Ihe roof where it perched, and was bask- 
ing in the sun. “Call it back,” said the 
mother. Agnes did so, and to her inex- 
pressible delight the dove instantly obeyed 
the call, and perched on her outstretched 
hand. While Agnes was thus happy, her 
mother said, “ Be you ever as obedient to 
me as the dove is to you, and you will 
make me always as happy as you are 
now. Will you not make me happy ?” 
Agnes did promise, and kept her word. 
No daughter could be more obedient. 

Another day, after Agnes had watered 
her flower-knots in the garden, she was 
tired, and sat on the green bank beside 
her mother over the fountain. The dove, 
which was now so tame that it had full 
liberty to fly where it pleased, came and 
perched on a stone to drink in the foun- 
tain. “ See, mother,” said Agnes, “ how 

14 


THE CARRIER-PIGEON 


carefully it flies from one moss-covered 
stone to another ; how cautiously it avoids 
the mud between the stones : how cleanly 
the little thing is. White is the color 
most easily soiled, and yet there is not a 
single speck on the snowy plumage of the 
careful bird.” “ But, see how careless 
Agnes is,” said the mother, pointing to 
Agnes’ white frock. When bringing the 
water-pot from the fountain, she had not 
taken good care of her clothes, so that 
some spots were found on them. She 
blushed when she saw them, but from that 
day ner mother had never to complain of 
the slightest soil in Agnes’ dress. 

She once took a journey with her moth- 
er, in which she enjoyed the greatest 
amusement. In the evening, when she 
came home, the dove at once flew to meet 
her, and gave very clear signs of its great 
M>v for her return. “ It was sorrowful all 


IS 


THE CARRIER-PIGEON. 


day for your absence/’ said one of the 
maids, “ and sought you in every pari A 
the house. It amazes me, how a little 
animal like it, that has no sense, can know 
its mistress and love it so much.” “ No 
doubt,” said Agnes, “ I am more than re- 
paid by this gratitude for the few grains 
of corn I give it every day.” “ But are 
you, Agnes,” said her mother, “always so 
grateful ? Look back to all the joys you 
have had to-day. Have you thanked 
God for them ? Oh ! let not a poor bird 
put you to the blush.” Before this time 
Agnes had not reflected much on her 
obligation of gratitude to God ; but, hence- 
forward, she never retired to rest without 
pouring forth her most ardent thanks to 
God for all the joys and favors he had be- 
stowed on her that day. 

“Dear little dove,” said Agnes, one 

morning early, as . she sat at her work. 

16 


THE CARRIER-PIGEON 


and looked at the bird perch-ed on the 
edge of the table, with its bright, beaming 
eyes fixed on its mistress, “ I have got 
many good lessons from you, and I owe 
you many thanks.” “ Oh, but the best is 
to come,” said the mother. “ The beauti- 
ful white dove is a lovely emblem of in- 
nocence. Candid, artless, and unaffected 
— it has no guile, no deceit, no dissimula- 
tion. Our divine Redeemer included all 
those qualities in the words, ‘ Be simple 
as doves.' Oh, ever aim at that noble 
simplicity ; avoid guile, deceit, and all sorts 
of evil. God grant that it may one day 
be said wnth truth, ‘ Agnes is as innocent 
and candid as a dove.' ” 

The prayer was heard, for such was 
the character of Agnes with all who knew 
her. 

a* 


17 


THE CARRIER-PIGEON. 


CHAPTER II. 

ROSALIND AND HER DAUGHTER EMMA 

The Knight Theobald returned home 
one evening from an expedition against a 
powerful band of robbers, who had long 
infested the country, and kept the whole 
population in constant alarm. Delighted 
at the success of his expedition, and amidst 
his family, he told with great animation 
how he had captured many of the rob- 
bers and handed them over to the law, 
and dispersed the others so that they 
could no longer trouble the peace and 
happiness of the land. The narrative 
was long. Ottilia and Agnes, though they 
listened attentively, busily plied their 
spinning-wheels. It was very late, the 
chamber lights were already on the table, 

when sudde^nly a beautiful lady, pale and 
18 


THE CARRIER-PIGEON. 



dressed in black, entered the parlor, with 
a little girl, also in black, leaning on her 
arm. The knight and his wife and daugh- 
ter rose to salute the stranger. 


“ God bless you, noble knight,” said the 
lady, weeping ; “ though I have never even 
seen you before, I come to claim your 
protection. I am Rosalind of Hohenberg 

19 


THE CARRIER-PIGEON. 


— this is my daughter Emma. My great 
afflictions are not, perhaps, unknown to 
you. My good husband died of the 
wounds received in that great battle 
fought last year. Oh, what a loss I have 
had in him ! A virtuous man — a kind 
and affectionate husband — the best oi 
fathers. You knew him well. Generous 
to all who asked ^ his help, he left no pro- 
vision for us here — his treasures are stored 
up in heaven. We are now in great 
danger of being deprived even of the 
necessaries of life. My two neighbors, 
both rapacious knights, are oppressing me. 
One wishes to seize my corn-fields and 
pasture-lands, up to the very walls of my 
castle; the other threatens to rob me oi 
rny forests, that come up to my gates at 
the other side. Oh, how much they are 
changed ! Avarice, the cause of so many 
crimes on this earth, has changed my hus* 


THE CARRIER-PIGEON. 


band’s friends into my bitterest enemies 
Too well he foresaw this, and with his 
last breath he mentioned your name. 
‘ Put your confidence,’ said he, ‘ in God 
and Sir Theobald, and no enemy shall 
dare touch a hair of your head.’ Oh, 
realize the words of m}'^ dying husband. 
Alas ! what shall become of me, if I have 
nothing but my castle 'vs^lls! Can the 
stones feed myself and my Emma? Should 
you — which heaven forbid — meet my hus- 
band’s fate, and your lady and daughter 
be poor and helpless as we, may they find 
a strong arm to help them in the hour ol 
need !” 

Little Emma, who was about the same 
age as Agnes, approached the knight, and, 
with tears in her eyes, implored him — 
“ Noble knight, be a father to me, and do 
not reject me.” 

Theobald stood with a serious air, his 

21 


THE CARRIER-PIGEON. 


eyes on the ground, and one hand, ac 
cording to his custom, raised to his lips. 
“ Oh, dear father,’* said Agnes, crying, 
“ do pity them. When the dove, chased 
by the hawk, sought help from me, my 
mother said that we should never reject 
those who fly to us for aid. She was de- 
lighted that I had pity on the dove. And 
do not this little lady and her mother de- 
serve pity more than the dove ? Oh, save 
them from the grasping claws of these 
knights — they are wicked hawks.” 

The knight was deeply affected, and 
answered with earnestness, “ Yes, Agnes, 
with the help of God I will protect them. 
I was silent, not because I did not feel for 
their wrongs, but because I was thinking 
how I could avenge them, and protect 
this excellent lady and her innocent daugh- 
ter.” The knight brought a chair for the 

mother, and little Agnes did the same for 
82 


THE CARRIER-PIGEON. 


the daughter. Ottilia went to prepare a 
supper better than usual for her guests; 
for in those days ladies even of high birth 
superintended such matters in person. 

Theobald then asked the grounds of the 
exorbitant claims of the two knights, and 
was satisfied that Rosalind was deeply in- 
jured. “Justice is on your side,” said he, 
“and to-morrow, at break of day, I with 
some of my retainers shall try what we 
can do for you. Remain here with your 
daughter until I return, and you can then 
bring home with you the good news I ex- 
pect to have for you.” The whole com- 
pany then partook of some refreshment, 
and spent a happy night together. In the 
morning Theobald, accompanied by hi? 
retainers, set out for Rosalind’s castle. 

Agnes was delighted that Emma was to 
spend some days with her. She con- 
ducted her young guest to her chamber 

23 


THE CARRIER-PIGEON. 


and through the garden, and showed hei 
all her wardrobe, her flowers, and her 
dove. In a short time they were warm 
friends ; for Emma, too, was a jrood and 
well-educated girl. 

In a few days Theobald returned. “ Good 
news,” said he, when he entered the hall. 
“ Noble lady, your enemies have re- 
nounced >heir extravagant claims, and all 
strife is at an end. Though I proved 
clearly that their claims were unjust, they 
paid very little attention to me ; but they 
took another tone when I told them, that 
the slightest injury done to you would be 
a declaration of war against me. Have 
courage and hope, lady ! no stranger shall 
reap your fertile fields, nor fell the trees of 
your paternal forests.” 

The afflicted lady now forgot her griefs, 
and tears of gratitude glistened in her 
eyes. “ God, the faithful protector of the 

S4 


THL CARRIER-PIGfiON. 


widow and orphan,” said she — “ God will 
:eward you for the favor 3"ou have done 
to me and my child ; may He protect you 
frorn all evil, and guard you in the hour of 
need.” 

She then prepared to return without de- 
lay to Hohenberg. Agnes and her young 
friend were overwhelmed with grief for 
their separation. The stranger could not 
be allowed to go without a present ; and 
as she had often expressed a wish to have 
a tame dove. Agnes brought down her 
own, and, with tears in her eyes, gave it 
to Emma. At first she positively refused 
to take it ; but after a warm contest with 
her affectionate friend, she consented. 
Agnes gave her the cage also ; and rec- 
ommended the poor dove with as much 
earnestness, as a mother intrusting her 
child to a stranger’s care. 

But Emma was scarcely gone, when 


THE CA11RIER-PIGE0J>J. 


Agnes was sorry for having given the 
dove. Mother/* said she, “ it would 
hjive been much better, had I given my 
gold ear-rings, as a keepsake, to my young 
friend.” But her mother said, “ You can 
do so, when she comes again. The pres- 
ent 3^ou gave was far more suitable on 
this occasion. Had it been richer, it 
would not have been so welcome, and 
might, perhaps, have given offence. To 
present her the thing most dear to you, 
however trifling in itself, was creditable 
to you, and gave her the strongest prool 
of your love. Do not regret what you 
have done. See, your good father was 
ready to risk his life to defend an injured 
lady, and should not you renounce your 
greatest pleasure, to cheer an afflicted 
orphan ? Whoever does not learn to 
sacrifice every earthly good, no matter 
how dear, for the benefit of his afflicted 


THE CARRIER-PIGEON 


fellow- creatures, can have no real love 
for them. Such sacrifices are the noblest 
that we can offer to God. He will reward 
you amply for your generous present.** 


CHAPTER III. 

THE TWO PILGRIMS. 

Lady Rosalind now lived content and 
in peace within the walls of her old castle, 
which lay in the deep recess of a wooded 
mountain. Late one evening, two pil- 
grims knocked at the castle gate, and asR- 
ed for a night’s lodging. They were 
dressed in the usual style of pilgrims — a 
long dark brown robe, scallop-shells in 
their hats, and the pilgrim’s staff in their 
hands. The porter sending to his lady 
for orders, she at once told him to con- 


THE CARRIER-PIGEON. 


duct the strangers to the lower chambere 
and supply them with a good supper and a 
goblet of wine. Rosalind and her daugh- 
ter came down, when supper was over. 

The pilgrims told them many tales ot 
the Holy Land. All the inmates of the 
castle were grouped eagerly around them, 
but none was more deeply interested in 
the wonderful narratives, than little Em- 
ma. The tears flowed at each story, and 
before they were over, she would give 
the world to visit, even once, that Holy 
Land, where our Saviour lived and died. 
It was a pious wish, but her joy was dash- 
ed as she feared she could never gratify it. 

“ Dear Emma,” said her mother, “ any 
hour you please, you can visit that Holy 
Land, and see the Mount of Olives and 
Calvary, and the Tomb of our Lord, 
yfou have only to read the history of 
Jesus Christ, and you can follow Him 


THE CARRIER-PIGEOW 


thfough His charitable journeyings, and 
catch up His words as they fall from His 
lips, and witness His Passion, Death, and 
Resurrection. If we profit by His les- 
sons, His example. His sufFenngs, His 
death, and His resurrection, we have the 
Holy Land within our hearts. Yes — did 
all men study His history, and strictly 
obey His law, this wide world would be- 
come one Holy Land.” 

The pilgrims then made particular in- 
quiries about the neighboring country, and 
especially about the castle of Falkenberg. 
They extolled Knight Theobald to the 
skies. “If his castle be not too much 
out of our way,” said the elder pilgrim, 
“and if I thought I could find him at 
home, I could not think of passing with- 
out paying him a visit.” Rosalind told 
him that Falkenberg castle lay directly in 
their road, and that Theobald, who had 


THE CARRIER-PIGEON 


jusr. returned from an excursion, would 
certainly be at home. “ I am most happy 
to hear it,” said the pilgrim. “It is my 
dearest wish to see him under his own 
roof. To-morrow, at daybreak, we start 
for Falkenberg.” 

Rosalind and her daughter sent a thou- 
sand kind remembrances to Theobald, 
Ottilia, and Agnes. Emma gave some 
money to the pilgrims, which her mother 
had given her for the purpose, and told 
them not to forget, on any account, to tell 
her friend Agnes, that the dove was going 
on well. As the good lady had learned 
from the inquiries of the strangers, that 
they were unacquainted with the country, 
she ordered one of the servant- boys to be 
ready in the morning early, to conduct 
them ; and then taking her leave, she wish- 
ed the pilgrims a good-night.' 

Next morning the pilgrims set out 

30 


THE CARRIER-PIGEON. 


I’heir young guide was proud of his er 
rand, and insisted on being allowed to 
carry their wallets. They took no notice 
of him, but walked on silently. For a 
while their road was very uneven, up hill 
and down hill, but at length, having reach- 
ed the top of a very steep hill, they came 
on a level road, and began to converse in 
Italian. Their guide was also an Italian. 
Leonard was the name usually given him 
in the castle, but he was much better 
pleased to be called Leonardo, as in his 
native land. He was a poor orphan boy, 
whom Sir Adelind had taken up, and 
brought with him to Germany. Though 
long accustomed to speak the German 
language, he had not yet forgotten the 
Italian. He listened with delight to the 
pilgrims, and was just go’og to say how 
happy he was to hear once more the sweet 
■oumls of his native tongue, — when he 


THE CARRIER-PIGEON. 


suddenly shrunk back, chilled and horri* 
fied at what they were saying. 

He collected from what he heard, that 
they were pilgrims in dress only ; that 
this neighborhood was not so unknown to 
them as they pretended ; that they be- 
longed to that band of robbers which 
Theobald had punished so severely, and 
that they were now burning for revenge ; 
that under the cloak of piety, they had re- 
solved to go to his castle and get a night’s 
lodging ; but that at the dead of night, 
when all was still, they were to rise and 
massacre Theobald and all his family, then 
plunder his castle and reduce it to ashes. 

As soon as the towers of Falkenberg 
appeared in the gray distance, between 
two wooded mountains, Lupo, the old 
bandit, said to his younger companion 
Orso, “ See the dragon -nest of that hor- 
rible butcher, who brought so many of 


THE CARRIER-PIGEON. 

our brave boys to the gallows. A death 
of the most racking torture awaits him. 
We’ll chain him, and burn him alive in 
the flames of his castle.” 

“ Yes,” answered Orso ; “still the mis- 
sion endangers our necks. If it fail, we 
are dead. But a chance of getting the 
knight’s bags of gold is worth the risk.” 

“ His life,” said the old robber, with a 
revengeful scowl. “ His murder would 
give more joy than his bags of gold, 
though I have an eye to them, too. Once 
safe out of this venture, and our fortunes 
are made. We can retire from trade, and 
live on our money. An idea strikes me 
just now. What a pleasant thing to dress 
ourselves in the knight’s most splendid 
robes ! You can have his gold collar, and 
I his knight’s cross of precious stones. 
We can then fly to some foreign land, 
where no one can recognise us and there 

33 


THE CARRIER-PIGEON. 


pass for gentlemen, and make the most of 
our money.” 

“ All very good,” said Orso, “ but still I 
have my doubts about the result.” 

What doubts ?” asked Lupo. “ Are 
not ail our plans well-laid and promising ? 
Have we not associates enough at our 
call ? The moment we hang out at the 
window of our room the three lights which 
we have taken as the signal, have we not 
seven stout and daring comrades, who 
have been on the watch for us these many 
nights past? We can admit them through 
the little garden gate, which is easily open- 
ed from the inside. One of those men, 
who was once a resident in the castle, 
knows every nook and chamber and turn 
in it, as well as in his own house. Nine 
of us, well armed, wiW have to do with a 
few men in their beds. Courage alone ii 
required — success is certain.” 

34 


THE CARRIER-PIGEON. 


The blood froze in poor Leonardo’s 
J^eins at this atrocious project, but he did 
not let them see that he knew what they 
were saying. He walked carelessly be- 
hind them, now and then plucking some 
flowers, or playing a little tune on a leaf ; 
but all the time he was praying fervently 
to God, that he might defeat the diabolical 
scheme of these horrible men. Leonardo 
resolved to accompany them to the castle, 
and make their plans known to the brave 
Theobald. 

While they were still arranging the best 
means of succeeding, the old robber slip- 
ped on a narrow footpath, and had nearly 
fallen into a deep chasm in the rock. In 
the fall he was caught by some brambles, 
and the thorns raising his pilgrim cloak, 
Leonardo saw under that long dark-brown 
dress, a scarlet doublet and a glittering 
breastplate of polished steel. A long, 

35 


THE CARRIER-PIGEON. 


sharp dagger, was also visible. But the 
boy seemed as if he had not seen them. 
The old villain suddenly concealed the 
dagger and pulled down his pilgrim cloak, 
casting at the same time a hawk’s glance 
at the poor trembling boy. 

They now came to the brink of a fright- 
ful ravine, through which a mountain tor- 
rent, swollen with the heavy rains, roared 
and tumbled beneath them. Two pro- 
jecting rocks met halfway over the gulf, 
and between them lay a long slender 
plank of fir, secured only at one side. 
This was their only path. As they ap- 
proached it, the old robber said in Italian, 
“That lad may have seen that I am armed, 
and may suspect us. When he is getting 
over, I must send him to the bottont 
Then we are safe — he can tell no tales.” 

At these terrible words a deadly chill 

fhot through poor Leonardo’s frame. He 
sa 


THE CARRIER-PIGEON. 


drew back several paces from the fright- 
ful abyss. “ I am afraid/' said he ; “ my 
head is dizzy/' “Don't be afraid, boy, 
come here to me and I will help you 
over," said the old villain, rushing, with 
outstretched arms, to seize him. But Leo- 
nardo screamed and fled, and had made 
up his mind to plunge into a thicket if the 
robber came near him. “Ah," said the 
poor fellow, trembling in every limb, “ let 
me go ; both of us would fall into the flood. 
And though I got over safe, how could 1 
come back? Let me go home; you don't 
want a guide now. When you are over 
the bridge, Falkenberg is near you ; you 
want no guide," 

The young robber, who did not much 
like to cross the dangerous plank, at once 
ascribed the poor boy's terror to the same 
cause. “If the simple body," said he in 
Italian, “ suspected any thing, I will con* 

4 37 







THE CARRIER-PIGEON. 

Bent to be flung down this gulf ; and, sup« 
pose that he had seen your aimor and 
dagger, what then? he does not under- 
stand our language, and, of course, does 
not know what we were plotting. Be- 
sides, no one would pay any attention to 
his childish prattling. Let the poor scamp 
take to his heels.'" 

“Well, be it so,” said the old robber; 
“ but for greater security we must cut this 
plank, and then, though the fellow should 
know, he cannot baffle our plans. There 
is Falkenberg. There is no bridge or ford 
over this stream for several leagues at 
either side of us. News cannot come 
here until our work is done.” 

The two bandits then took their wallets 
from the boy, and allowed him to go away, 
without one kind word for having con- 
ducted them. They passed the bridge, 
and when they were at the other side, old 

39 


THE CARRIER-PIGEON 


Lupo shouted aloud, “You were right, 
lad ; that was a dangerous passage. It is 
crazy from age, and almost rotten. Lives 
would certainly be lost on it ; so it is much 
better to break it down, and then people 
must build a more secure one.” 

The two bandits then pulled down the 
old planks. They tumbled with a loud 
splash into the foaming flood, and were 
whirled rapidly over the rugged precipice. 
As soon as the pretended pilgrims disap- 
peared behind the rocks on the opposite 
side, Leonardo ran with all his might to 
bring the terrible news to his lady. Not 
one soul in the whole neighborhood he 
knew to whom he could safely intrust his 
secret, with any hope of putting the doom 
ed victims on their guard. 


THE CARRlER-PIGEOIf. 


CHAPTER IV. 

FEARS AND HOPES. 

Nothing could be farther from Lady 
Rosalind’s thoughts within the secure walls 
of her castle, than the awful fate that was 
descending on the noble Theobald. Since 
the departure of the pilgrims, Emma’s 
mind was entirely captivated by their nar- 
ratives, and she asked her mother a thou- 
sand questions about the Holy Land. The 
day was given to the-ir usual occupations ; 
but at the approach of evening, when the 
sun was descending, and a refreshing 
breeze cooled the air, they descended from 
their mountain castle, to view their lands 
in the adjacent valley. Every thing prom- 
ised an abundant harvest. Some fields 
waving with golden corn, gave rich hopes 
of an overflowing granary ; while others, 

4 * 41 


THE CARRIER-PIGEON. 


gleaming with the brilliant hues of the 
blue flax-blossom, rivalled the summer sky 
in beauty. The mother and daughter felt 
doubly happy, because they looked upon 
these fields as a recent present from 
heaven, and fervently thanked their God 
for his bounteous favors. 

Leonardo, reeking with perspiration, 
and almost out of breath, rushed down to 
his mistress. “ O lady,” said he, clapping 
his hands, “ horrible news ! They are not 
pilgrims, but robbers and murderers, these 
men that I went with ; they are murder- 
ing Theobald and all his family, and plun- 
dering and burning his castle.” The 
frightened boy could say no more; he 
sunk down exhausted under a tree by the 
roadside, and remained for some time in- 
sensible, and unable to utter a single word. 

Rosalind and Emma w’^ere overwhelmed 
with grief. “ Gracious heaven,” exclaim* 

42 


THE CARRIER-PIGEON. 

ed the mother, “what shocking intelli- 
gence ! Oh, noble knight, generous lady !’* 

“ And my own kind Agnes,’’ said Em- 
ma, trembling and pale as death. “Can I 
live if she and her good parents are mur- 
dered ?” 

“ Run, Emma,” said the mother, “ run 
to the castle. I and this poor boy will 
follow as soon as we can. Run with all 
your might, and give the alarm to our re- 
tainers. They must start instantly for 
Falkenberg, to defend them. Let them 
drive, though they were to sink their hor- 
ses to the earth.” 

Emma sprung swift as a roe up the 
steep side of the mountain, and rushing 
into the castle gate, alarmed all the domes • 
tics by her cries. They rushed into the 
court, and she told them that fire and 
sword were descending on devoted Falk- 
enberg. The news fell like a thunderbolt 

43 


THE CARRIER-PIGEON 


on the whole family ; they cursed the pre- 
tended pilgrims, and could not feel more 
excited were their own castle in flames 
over their heads. 

Rosalind arrived shortly after, accom- 
panied by Leonardo, of whom she had in 
the mean time learned all the particulars. 
“ Why are you standing here in idle sor- 
row,” said she ; “ start — run — save them.” 

“ Impossible, my lady,” said an old gray- 
haired e^room. “The two villains have *oo 
great a start of us; they are in Falken- 
berg already. It is almost evening now, 
and Falkenberg is not less than fifteen 
leagues distant. How could we traveJ so 
rapidly in a dark night, over a bad road, 
torn up now by the winter floods ? The 
best horse in the stable could not bring 
me to Falkenberg before daybreak ; be- 
sides, our farm-horses are bad roadsters, 
and all the war-horses were sold after my 

44 


THE CARRIER-PIGEON 

master’s death. There is not in the whole 
country, far or near, a single horse that 
could well stand half the journey.” 

The good lady wrung her hands in an 
agony of grief. “ Oh, God,” she exclaim- 
ed, raising her hands and eyes to heaven, 
while her tears flowed copiously, “ there is 
no help but in thee. O, have pity on the 
good people who had pity on me ! Pray, 
Emma, pray that God may blast the project 
of the villains.” 

Emma wept, and clasping her hands, 
prayed fervently — “Gracious God, assist 
them as they assisted us.” Her prayer 
was echoed by all the attendants, who 
sympathized sincerely in the sorrow of 
their lady. 

“My good men,” said Rosalind once 
more, “it may be almost impossible to 
reach Falkenberg before midnight, but at 
least make the attempt. A few wojds 

45 


THE CARRIER-PIGEON. 


would save their lives. A moment may 
decide all. If poor Leonardo were not 
exhausted, and almost killed, he could run 
as swift as when he won the race some- 
time ago. Martin,’’ she said, turning to a 
little boy, “ you run swiftly ; start at once 
The footpath is one-third shorter than the 
road. Arrive in time at Falkenberg, and 
a hundred florins are yours.” 

“Impossible, my lady,” said the boy. 
“ Who could travel these dark nights over 
a rough mountain path, without falling 
over some precipice ?” 

“Besides,” added Leonardo, “there is 
no crossing the river ; a man could not do 
it without wings.” 

“Wings,” said Emma, while her eyes 
danced with joy. “ A plan strikes me for 
sending word to Falkenberg. Knight 
Theobald told me, that if I did not keep 
my dove closely locked, it would certainly 


THE CARRIER-PIGEON 


go home. The distance is great, but it 
will find its w-ay. Let us fasten a note on 
the dove’s neck, and it will soon be in 
Falkenberg.” 

“ Oh, thanks be to God,” exclaimed the 
mother. “ I think he has heard our pray- 
er. It was your good angel, Emma, that 
put that thought in your head.” 

Emma ran and brought down the dove, 
while her mother was writing the note. 
They tied it firmly to the red collar that 
Emma had placed on the dove’s neck. 
She then, accompanied by her mother and 
all the domestics, brought out the dove, 
and let it off outside the castle walls. 
The dove shot up straight into the blue 
sky, and after sailing two or three times 
over the castle, turned towards Falken 
berg, and was soon out of sight. There 
was not a soul in the castle of Hohenberg 
that did not praise the happy thought of 

47 


THE CARRIER-PIGEON. 


Iheir young lady. Hearty prayers fol- 
lowed the poor dove. A vessel laden 
with gold could not have more sincere 
and anxious benedictions. 

Rosalind and her daughter were now a 
prey to harrowing suspense. “Will the 
dove find the way, and be there in time ?” 
asked the mother. “Oh, if the hawk 
should pounce on it, or if it fail on the 
way, or arrive too late, or not be seen and 
admitted should it reach Falkenberg, how 
dreadful are the consequences ?” The 
mother and daughter sat down near the 
window that looked towards Falkenberg, 
and as they gazed with anxious eyes on 
the surrounding prospect, their hearts were 
raised to heaven in silent prayer. The 
mists of evening began to fall, and filled 
them with the most gloomy forebodings. 
They shuddered at the thought, that a 
'urid glare in the distance, reflecting the 

48 


THE CARRIER-PIGEON. 


flames of Falkenberg, might too soon tell 
tliem that the dove had not arrived. They 
never stirred from the window, nor closed 
their eyes during the whole night. 

Midnight soon came. A frightful storm 
howled through the forest, and the sky to- 
wards Falkenberg became dark as pitch. 
Suddenly, to their great horror, it grew 
bright. They trembled, and prayed. “Mer- 
ciful heaven exclaimed Emma, “ the 
flames are ascending higher and higher ev- 
ery moment ; oh, look, how the storm agi- 
tates them \” They would have fainted, had 
they not soon discovered their mistake ; 
for, to their great joy, they saw that it was 
the full moon, shooting her beams through 
the murky heavens, and at last rising like 
a large shield over the summit of the 
mountain. Still they remained at the 
window ; but they saw no traces of that 

6ery red that is usually reflected in a dark 
5 4d 


THE CARRIER-PIGEON. 


sky from a building in flames. At length 
daylight returned; and with joyful and 
hearty thanks to God, they welcomed the 
beams of morning, which closed so harass- 
ing and anxious a night. 


CHAPTER V. 

THE RESOT7E. 

Rosalind and Emma were now satisfied 
that the murderers had not succeeded in 
burning Falkenberg. Still they were un- 
certain whether Theobald and his wife 
and daughter might not have been mur- 
dered. Many a time did Rosalind ex- 
claim, “ Oh ! what would I not give for 
good news from Falkenberg : I would give 
up all I have in this world.” “ And I would 
give all my money, too,” said Emma. But 

50 


THE CARRIER-PIGEON. 

the fate of Falkenberg was as yet a niys. 
tery to them, and their only resource was 
to wait patiently for news. 

The evening before, Theobald, Ottilia, 
and Agnes were, after sitting down to 
table, happy and unsuspecting, as they al- 
ways were. The rays of the descending 
sun shone through the round windows, 
and lighted up with their ruddy hues the 
old baronial hall. The warder announced 
two pilgrims. “ Take good care of them,'' 
said Theobald, “and after dinner I will 
see them myself. Let them come up and 
give us an account of their pilgrimage. 
In the mean time, let them have dinner 
and a goblet of good wine to make them 
eloquent." The warder retired, and Agnes 
was indulging in the joyous anticipation 
of an interesting narrative. Alas! little 
did they dream of the frightful fate that 
hung over them I 


THE CARRIER-PIGEON. 


As they were sitting happy and con 
tented there, Agnes suddenly exclaimed in 
wonder, “ Oh ! my little dove.” And in- 
deed there it was at the window, with its 
little wings outspread, and pecking at the 
glass, as if to ask leave to get in. Agnes 
opened the window ; the dove flew in, and 
perched on her shoulder. “Look,” said 
the mother, “ what a beautiful red collar 
it has got ; and there is some paper tied 
to it — a letter, I believe. What singular 
tricks come into children’s heads !” 

Theobald examined the paper closely, 
and saw written on it the words, “ Read 
quickly.” “ A pressing message this,” said 
he with a smile. He opened the pa- 
per — read it. “Good heaven,” said he, 
turning pale, “ what is this ?” “ What ?” 

asked the mother and daughter, in the 
greatest alarm. Theobald then read 
aloud : — 


THE CARRIER-PIGEON. 


“ Most noble Knight — The two pi.grim- 
who are with you this night, are two rob- 
bers of that gang against which you were 
lately engaged. The elder is called Lupo, 
the younger Orso. They have armor and 
sharp daggers under their pilgrim’s dress. 
This night they intend to murder you and 
your wife and daughter; to pillage your 
castle, and then give it up to the flames. 
They intend then to put on your dress, your 
knight’s uniform, the golden chain and the 
diamond cross, and thus to deceive others. 
Seven other villains are lurking in the 
neighborhood for the concerted signal — 
three lights from the strangers’ room — 
upon which they are to enter the castle, 
and aid their associates. The two rob- 
bers are to open the garden gate, and 
admit them. Heaven grant that the dove 
may arrive safe, and that you all may be 

saved I I had no other means of sending 
5 * 53 


THE CARRIER-PIGEON 


word to you. Do not forget to send in* 
stant news of your preservation to youi 
grateful 

“ Rosalind.*’ 

“ Merciful Providence !” said the moth- 
er, with great emotion, “how wonderful 
are thy ways ! The dove is a messenger 
from heaven to us, as it was once to Noah. 
Oh Agnes, let us bend the knee with the 
same feelings as they did in the ark : our 
preservation is not a whit less miracu- 
lous.” 

Theobald, too, knelt ; and clasping his 
hands and raising his eyes to heaven, de- 
voutly thanked God for this great good- 
ness. Thjen ordering his wife and daugh- 
ter to retire to another chamber, he buck- 
led on his armor, and girding on his sword, 
ordered .wo of his bravest soldiers to be 
ready at a word. 

54 


THE CARRIER-PIGEON. 


Word was tlien sent to the pilgrims to 
come up. They entered the chamber with 
a gentle air and a thousand salutations ; 
and Lupo, with an humble look and in a 
low and respectful tone, thus spoke to 
Theobald : “ Most noble Lord and Knight, 
we come direct from Hohenberg, and 
bring you a thousand kind remembrances. 
O how happy we feel to see, face to face, 
that noble knight whose heroism is known 
all over the world — who has the constant 
prayer of the widow and the orphan, and the 
oppressed, and whom the good Lady Rosa- 
lind praises and blesses as her most gener- 
ous benefactor! Oh, what a noble lady 
she is! She treated us in the most prince- 
ly manner. And her amiable daughter 
Emma — the little angel — was melted even 
to tears with the pious stories of our pil- 
gnmage. But we have time enough to 
tell you and your noble family all the 

55 


THE CARRIER-PIGEON. 


news from Hohenberg. For the pitesent, 
we discharge our commission by assuring 
you that the mother and daughter, and 
that beautiful little dove too, are as well 
as you could wish them.” 

Theobald at all times hated flattery , 
but it roused him now to such a degree 
that he could scarcely restrain himself. 
Still he suppressed his anger, and in a 
solemn but calm tone asked, “Who are 
you ?” “ Poor pilgrims,” they answered ; 

we are returning from the Holy Land to 
Thuringia, where we were born.” “Your 
names ?” said Theobald. “ Herman is my 
name, and my companion’s is Burkhart.” 
“ What do you want in my castle ?” con- 
tinued Theobald. “ This night's lodg- 
ing” — they replied ; “ we start in the morn- 
ing at cock-crow. O how happy our poor 
friends will be to see us !” 

“ Wretch I” exclaimed the knight, in a 

56 


THE CARRIER-PIGEON. 


thundering voice. “You are not Herman 
and Burkhart,” said he, drawing his sword; 
“ but you are Lupo, and that young vil- 
lain is Orso. You are not returning from 
the Holy Land, you are robbers and cut- 
throats — not pilgrims. Germany is not 
your native place, you are not going to 
Thuringia. You come here to rob, and 
burn, and murder, and not for a night’s 
lodging. But I pay you in your own 
coin — fire and sword shall be your pun- 
ishment — aye — do you think your pilgrim 
dress, your crosses, and your shells de- 
ceive me ? Here, servants, strip them at 
once, and let us see them in their own 
dress. Disarm them, chain them, and 
throw them into the dungeon.” 

The servants seized them and pulled off 
the pilgrim’s dress, and there they stood 
armed to the teeth in coats of mail. “ Hor- 
rible hypocrisy!” exclaimed the knight, 

57 


THE carrier-pigeon. 

•‘to disguise the black murderer’s heart 
under the dress of piety, that crime alone 
well deserves death.” The two robbers 
were then pinioned and cast into the dun- 
geon. 

When they found themselves alone, 
“ How could that knight,” asked the 
younger, “ know every thing so well ? 
He knows even what we were saying on 
the road, about taking his clothes, and 
passing ourselves as knights. Can it be 
that the boy understood us, and betrayed 
the plot ?” 

“ If so,” answered the old fellow, “ he 
must have flown in through the castle 
window. I never took my eyes off the 
castle gate, and not one soul entered after 
ourselves. There is something wrong here 
— the knight must have a league with the 
devil. ’ 

The old villain then became so inflamed 


58 


THE CARRIER-PIGEON. 


ivith rage that he poured out awful iin 
precations on the knight. “ That cruCi 
Theobald/' said he, gnashing his teeth, “ is 
the ruin of us all.” The obdurate wretch 
did not seem to know that his own evil 
deeds were the cause of his ruin. 

But Orso soon began to murmur and 
weep and upbraid Lupo. “ O ! that I had 
not followed your bad example !” said he ; 
“ you promised me a long and happy life, 
and what awaits me now but a death of 
tortures ? You told me that our life was 
not wicked, and that God pardons crime 
in this, and sometimes even in the next 
life. But the sense of my own conscience 
told me a very different tale and always 
threatened me with impending judgments. 
O ! that I had not listened to that voice ! 
What good can all my ill-gotten treasures 
do for me now ? Had I supported myself 
by the hardest labor in the forest or the 

59 


THE CARRIER-PIGEON. 


road, and kept my conscience clear, how 
happy would I not be in comparison with 
my present state ! But the hand of the 
most high and_ all-seeing Judge has seized 
me and plunged me into this dark dun- 
geon. All is over with me here below. 

0 ! that I could find mercy hereafter ! that 

1 may serve as a warning example to 
young persons, and prevent them from 
being led into sin and crime, through a 
desire of wealth and pleasure, to be in the 
end miserable as I am now !” 

In the mean time the servants were en- 
gaged, by order of their master, in another 
important affair. When night fell and 
the stars were glimmering in the sky, 
they hung out three lights from the room 
in which the pilgrims generally resided. 
The warder and seven others of tried 
fidelity were posted in the court-yard, 

near the little gate through which the rob- 
60 


THE CARRIER-PIGEON. 


bers were expected to come. They wait 
ed for a long time — but no one appeared. 
The castle clock had tolled midnight — 
the moon arose and gilded with her golden 
beams the frowning battlements of the 
castle : the servants began to become 
restless. “Is all our trouble lost?” said 
they to themselves, “ the villains, the mo- 
ment they see us, will fly and escape 
through the woods.” 

“ Oh ! T know a plan for enticing them 
in here s. curely,” said the warder, start- 
ing off at the same moment, and return- 
ing in a short time dressed out in the 
pilgrim's cloak and cap. “They cannot 
know me now,” said he, “and you can 
remain behind that buttress until they 
come in.” The servants once more pa- 
tiently resumed their position. 

A gentle tap was heard at the gat< 

The warder opened it cautiously ; one o. 

6 61 


I HE CARRIER-PIGEON. 


the liL'bers was standing there, and mid 
taking the warder for the pretended pil- 
grim, asked in a whisper, “ Is all right ?” 

“ All right,” answered the warder in 
the same low tone ; “ make no noise — 
come in gently.” 

One after another the seven robbers 
slipped in to the court-yard. They car- 
ried with them pitch torches and other 
combustibles, and every man had his 
sword drawn. When the last man en- 
tered, the warden locked the door and 
took out the key, and instantly gave the 
signal to the servants. 

They sprung upon the robbers, and each 

secured his man. At the same moment 

he castle gate was thrown open and the 

knight appeared, accompanied by a troop 

of his domestics, bearing blazing torches 

and glittering swords. The light from 

fte moon and fcrches, made the place as 
62 


THE CARRIER-PIGEON 


bright as daylight. The robbers were 
struck powerless by the fear. They had 
not time to use their arms. They were 
easily overpowered, and bound with fet- 
ters, and flung into the dungeon to re- 
ceive the reward of their villany. 

“ Such is the fate of the evil-doer,"' said 
the knight ; “ he that digs a pit for his 
neighbor, falls into it himself.” 


CHAPTER VI. 

THE OLIVE-BR ANOH. 

Long and wearily did those hours pass 
in Hohenberg, where Rosalind and her 
daughter were anxiously expecting news 
from Falkenberg. Many a time did poor 
Emma run up the winding flight of stone- 
sleps, to the top of the tov/er, and stiain 

63 


THE CAKRIER-PIGEON. 


her eyes to catch a glimpse of the ex- 
pected messenger. Dinner hour carne^ 
and yet no news — and so violent was the 
depression of the mother and daughter, 
that they thought the hours would never 
pass away. At length, about nightfall, as 
Emma was looking out through the nar- 
row windows in the tower, she saw, com- 
ing up the narrow road that led to the 
castle, a carriage — attended by a body of 
armed troopers. She flew at once to her 
mother, “ They are coming ! — they are 
safe!” said she; and both ran to meet their 
welcome visiters. 

Sir Theobald, his wife and daughter, 
had started at break of day, to bring the 
good news in person, and to thank their 
preservers. Theobald sprung from his 
horse when he saw Rosalind and Em- 
ma, and his wife and daughter following 
bin Irom the carriage, all expressed their 

64 


THE CARRIER-PIGEON. 


warmest thanks for the happy escape from 
destruction. Words cannot give an idea 
of this meeting, nor of the joy, the grati- 
tude, the emotions, that beamed in the 
faces of the two happy families as they 
entered the castle. 

The evening was celebrated with all 
the pomp of a festival. The plot, and its 
discovery and defeat, were the sole topic 
of conversation. Leonardo was brought 
up, and obliged to tell every word he had 
heard the robbers say on the road. He 
did so — and when he came to that place 
where the young robber pleaded so hard 
that he should not be flung into the preci- 
pice, “ I wish,” said he, “ to appeal to your 
mercy in behalf of that man — let his pun- 
ishment be merciful, since he was mer 
ciful himself.” All applauded this , gooo 
thought of the boy. 


THE CARRIER-PIGEON. 


When dinner wa*’ over, Sir Theobald 
seized his silver goblet, “ Here,” said he, 
“is to the good Emma! it is her happy 
thought of THE CARRIER-PIGEON that we 
ought to thank for our own lives, and the 
preservation of old Falkenberg.” 

“Praise be to God,” said Rosalind, “that 
we have much reason to be pleased with 
our children. But they must not be too 
proud of their good deed. For, that poor 
boy, Leonardo, who almost killed himself 
with running, deserves more thanks than 
they.” 

“You are certainly right,” said Theo- 
bald, filling his goblet, which he tasted and 
then presented to the boy. “Drink to 
our health!” said he; “you shall be my 
page ; for your fidelity ennobles you and 
gives you a title to honor.” 

“Deeply,” said Ottilia, “ought we to 


00 


THE CARRIER-PIGEON. 

cheiish the memory of the good Adalrich, 
for, if he had not taken that orphan boy 
into his protection — where would we and 
ours be now ?” 

“ Certainly/’ said Rosalind, “ the favor 
which my husband did to that boy, has 
been paid back to us one hundredfold, in 
your preservation. But has not Theo- 
bald been more generous to me and my 
orphan daughter ? The prompt relief he 
gave us against our enemies, could not go 
unrewarded. He preserved us, and God 
preserved him. God could not forget Ot- 
tilia’s and Agnes’ affectionate solicitude for 
me and my daughter. To Him alone be 
praise and glory !” 

“ Yes,” concluded the knight, “to God, 
here, as always, the first acknowledgment 
is due. He has mercifully looked down 
on us ; and by the agency of an innocent 


67 


THE CARRIER-PIGEON. 


little pigeon, has wrought great wonders 
in our favor — eternal praises to His name! 
But we must not be ungrateful, neverthe- 
less, to our generous friends. What my 
sword could not have effected — to secure 
my castle against fraud and treachery— 
that Emma has achieved the aid of 
her little pigeon. Women, nay, even chil- 
dren, may effect great good, provided, like 
Rosalind and Emma, they be but of right 
heart and place their whole trust in God. 
And as Emma is now mistress of this 
castle, and has thus, in her very child- 
hood, without a sword being drawn, se- 
cured to the empire an important fron- 
tier fortress, I shall request the emper 
or to grant her, as her armorial bear- 
ings, ‘ a white pigeon with a green olive- 
branch.' ” 

“ It is an admirable idea," said the lady 


THE CARRIER-PIGEON 


Ottilia, •' and we must see that it shall he 
carried out. Meanwhile, I also must not 
forget my dear Emma.” She made a 
sign to her daughter, who left the apart- 
ment, and after a little the pigeon flew in. 
Agnes had brought it in a little basket, 
but had not yet said a word about it to 
her little friend. The bird at once flew 
to Emma and perched upon her hand. 
To her great amazement, it carried a gold 
olive-branch in its beak. 

“ My dear Emma,” said Ottilia, “ this 
gold olive-branch — the emblem of deliver- 
ance from peril, must be to you a little 
token of our gratitude. It was my moth- 
er’s bridal gift to me, for it was in time of 
war and distress, and I have worn it as a 
hair-bodkin, for which it was intended. 
My mother, when she handed it to me, re- 
peated a simple old rhyme, which is ap- 


THE CARRIER-PIGEON. 


propriate to this occasion also, and has 
been fulfilled in your history. 

‘ In every peril, let this olive be 
Emblem of God’s protecting power to thee.* 

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N a forest on the 
banks of the Danube, 
lived Theodora, a 
fisherman’s widow, 
in her lonely cottage. Her husband had 
been lately cut off in the prime of man- 
hood, leaving to her, as the sole consola- 


THE MADONNA. 


tion of lier early widowhood, Augustus, 
an only son, a fine, sprightly boy, aOom 
five years ol-d. She devoted all ner care 
to give him a good religious education, 
and hoped one day to see him following 
his father’s trade, in his father’s house. 
For the present, the fishing could not be 
carried on ; and it was a sad sight for 
ihe poor widow, whenever her eye rested 
on the fishing-tackle hanging on her cot- 
tage wall, or the fishing-boat lying idle 
outside the door. Still, she was able to 
support herself by her needle ; and many 
a time did midnight, while her only son 
was sleeping soundly, surprise her at the 
work which she plied for his sake. 

The little son’s only thought, from 
morning till night, was how he could 
please his mother. If she wept, as she 
always did when she remembered her 
husband, he endeavored, in his own arl- 


6 


THE MADONNA. 


less and affectionate way, to dry up her 
tears. Some days after the death of her 
husband, she was visited by her brother, 
wlio brought her a present of a fish from 
the neighboring village. Theodora looked 
at the present for a moment, and burst 
into tears. “ Ah !” said she, “ I thought 
I should never see such another fish in 
my cottaire.” 

“ O mother,” said her son, “ why do 
you cry ? When I am big I will bring 
you fish enough.” 

The poor mother could not but smile. 
‘‘Yes, Augustus,” said she, “I do hope 
you will be the consolation and support 
of my old age. Be as good and honest a 
man as your father, and you will make 
me the happiest of mothers.” 

One fine day in August, Theodoia had 
been busily engaged from daybreak, with 
some nets, which she expected to be able 


7 


THE MADONNA. 


to finish. Her son, in the mean time, was 
in the forest gathering nuts, from which 
she extracted oil to feed her lamp during 
the long winter nights. The happiness 
of Augustus knew no bounds, when he 
returned to his mother, with his little 
basket under his arm, full of nuts. On 
such occasions she always praised him, 
and encouraged him to acquire early 
these habits of industry, without .which 
there can be no success in life. On this 
day, he was tired and hungry after re- 
turning. The dinner-bell soon rung in 
the neighboring village, and his mother 
called him to dinner, which consisted of 
a bowl of good milk, and some bread, 
laid on the grass, at the foot of an old 
oak, in a green plot not far from her 
cottage. 

When the bread and milk had disap- 
peared, his mother said, *' Lie down there, 


8 


THE MADONNA. 


Augustus, under the shade of that tree, 
and sleep, for you are tired. I will go to 
my work, and return at the proper time 
to call you. Sleep now,” said ibe once 
more, turning to look at him again, 
as she was carrying the empty bowl 
to her cottage. In a few moments she 
looked again, and saw him fast asleep on 
the grass, his curly head resting on one 
arm, while the other grasped the little 
basket. His face was all smiles, and his 
ruddy cheeks were sweetly shaded by 
the flickering shadows of the beech over 
his head. She tore herself away, and 
worked hard for a considerable time at 
her nets. Two hours flew over her as ii 
they were two minutes. She ran to 
awake her son — but he had disappeared. 

The good boy,” thought she, “ has al- 
ready returned to his work.” Little did 
she suspect the terrible stroke that was 


9 


THE MADONNA. 


descending on her. She returned, and 
stretched out the net on the grass ; a few 
stitches yet remained, which detained her 
yet a considerable time. But as the boy 
was not returning, she became uneasy. 
She went and searched the whole wood, 
which was about a league long, and halt 
a league broad ; but she got no trace ol 
him. “Augustus! Augustus I” she cried, 
one hundred times at least — but there 
was no answer : Augustus could not be 
found 1 

Her affliction cannot be described ; it 
was like the- agonies of death. “ Can it 
be,” said she, “that he neglected that 
warning 1 gave him so repeatedly, not to 
go near the river ?” The very idea was 
horrifying : she ran to the river, but no 
trace of him was there. She returned 
to the village, weeping and disconsolate. 

A crowd was soon gathered by her 
10 


THE MADONNA 


cries: all, especially her brother, com- 
passionated the poor widow, but they 
could give her no news of her son. 
They instantly set out to look for himj 
some in the forest, others in the surround- 
ing fields, others in the river, — but in 
vain. Night fell, and no man had seen 
the slightest trace of him. 

“ If he were drowned in the Danube,” 
said one of the fishermen, “ we shall cer- 
tainly find nis body. We know the cur- 
rents of the river. He will surely be 
thrown up on the sand-bank near the old 
willow-tree.” 

The poor mother shuddered at this 
remark, and returning home, spent a 
sleepless and wretched night. At break 
of day she hurried to the bank of the 
river, to find, perhaps, the body of her 
son. For days and for weeks she went, 
morning and evening, to the same spot, 


THE MADONNA. 


and wandered disconsolate up and down 
the banks. There was she seen by the 
fishermen, as they pushed off their boats 
in the gray glimmering of dawn, or re- 
turned home late at night. All deeply 
sympathized in her affliction. 



A considerable time passed on ; still 

the body was not found, nor could the 

mother get the least intelligence of her 

lost boy. “ Oh !” would she often exclaim, 
12 


THE MADONNA 


m an agony of grief, “ in so short a time 
to lose my dear husband, and my only 
child ! — it is too hard ! Did I not know 
that it happened by the will of God, 1 
should despair.” She accused her own 
negligence, often wringing her hands, and 
exclaiming, “ Why did I not take better 
care of my boy !” When the good wo- 
men of the village came to console her, 
her only answer was, “O mothers, look 
to my case, and learn prudence from my 
neglect.” 

So violent and lasting was poor Theo- 
dora’s grief, that she soon became wan as 
a corpse, and wasted away to a shadow. 
Some weeks after the loss of her son, as 
she went to the chapel on Sunday, in the 
mourning-dress which she had worn since 
the death of her husband, all her neigh- 
bors might be heard remarking among 
themselves, “ Poor Dora ! she will soon 

2 13 


THE MADONxNA 


follow her husband and child to the 
grave !” 

The village pastor, a respectable old 
man, who always took a lively interest in 
the happiness of his parishioners, had 
paid the poor widow several visits. But 
when he saw her this day in the chapel, 
her wo-begone appearance excited his 
warmest sympathy. He sent for her after 
divine service. The venerable old man, 
with his snow-white locks flowing over 
his black robe, was sitting at his desk, 
writing something in his parish register 
when she entered. lie saluted her kind- 
ly ; and having requested her to wait a 
few moments, Theodora turned and fixed 
her eyes on a little picture, set in an 
elegant frame, on the wall. She gazed 
long and devoutly, till the tears came to 
her eyes. 

“ Well,” said the good man, laying down 

14 


THE MADONNA. 


his pen, and rising from his place, ‘‘do 
you like that picture ?” 

“Oh yes,” said poor Theodora, “it i.«i 
very beautiful ; I cannot look on it with- 
out crying.” 

“ You know what it is ?” asked the 
priest. 

“ Oh yes,” she answered ; “ an image 
of the Virgin Mother of God. I never 
saw so fine a picture of the Holy Mother, 
sorrowing for the death of her beloved 
Son.” 

“ That,” said the priest, “ is the best 
and most consoling model for you. Look 
closely now at the picture. Look : that 
sword in her breast is an emblem of that 
poignant grief which, according to the 
prophecy of Simeon, pierced her heart, at 
the cruel death of her Son. Her eyes 
full of tears, and her two hands raised to 
heaven, express her devotion and confi- 

15 


IHE MADONNA. 


dence in God. Those golden beams 
playing around her head, are types of 
that immortal crown which she now 
wears in heaven, as the reward of her 
patience in affliction, and her devout sub- 
mission to the will of God. 

“ Good Theodora,” he continued, “ you 
have had your own griefs ; you have lost 
your husband and your child. A double- 
edged sword has pierced your heart. 
But, like Mary, do you raise your eyes 
to heaven ; bow to the will of God ; con- 
fide in Him. Pray and hope for help 
from above. You know how Mary, by 
confidence in God, and strengthened by 
his grace, stood at the very foot of the 
cross. That faith which made her say, 
‘ Behold the handmaid of the Lord ; be it 
done to me according to thy word,’ when 
the angels announced the glad tidings to 

her — was strong in her heart, in this hour 
16 


THE MADONNA. 


of deep wo, and sustained her in hei 
agony. Nothing but the belief that God 
does all things for the best — that what 
He permits, is for our good — can sustain 
ana console you in your affliction. Keep 
ever in mind the great end of all our 
earthly v/oes. The sorrows of this world 
bear no proportion to the future glory 
which shall be revealed to us. Virtue is 
perfected by patience. Christ himself 
entered into his glory through sufferings ; 
Mary followed the same path ; nor is any 
other road open for us to heaven.” 

Theodora was much affected by this 
exhortation, and found great consolation 
in the sight of that picture. She could 
not take her eyes from it. “Yes,” said 
she, “ I will follow the example of that 
soiTowful mother ; I will look to heaven • 
pray, — hope, — and say from my heart 
Lord, thy will be done.* ” 

2 * 


27 


THE MADONNA. 


“Right,” said the oid priest, “right: 
that pleases me.” Nothing made the 
good man so happy as to be able to con- 
sole the afflicted. He took down the 
picture, and giving it to the poor widow, 
said, “ Lest you might forget your good 
resolution, take the picture home with 
you ; it is yours. When your heart be • 
gins to bleed again ; when you feel the 
edge of that sword of grief, look on this 
picture ; renew your good resolution ; 
your wounds will, after some time, be 
closed up, and a crown of glory await 
you in heaven.” 

Theodora followed the advice of the 
good priest, and the violence of her grief 
gradually subsided. Still, whenever she 
passed near the tree where she had, for 
the last time, seen her son, she felt the 
thorn of grief rankling in her heart. She 
bethought herself of cutting a niche in 


THE MADONNA 


the tree, and placing the image in it. 
“That tree,” said she, “always renews 
my grief ; but now it must renew my 
hope and consolation. Other mothers 
have the consolation of planting a cross 
in the churchyard, on the grave of their 
sons ; but this tree must be the monument 
for my poor Augustus.” 

She communicated her intention to the 
priest, who allowed her to carry it into 
effect. “ Do so,” said he, “ since it gives 
you consolation.” 

Accordingly, she cut a round niche in 
the tree, and placed the image there ; and 
whenever she passed by, and thought ol 
her lost son, she looked on that sweet 
face, saying to herself, “ O Mary ! may 
I, too, be a handmaid of the Lord ; may 
His holy will be done.” The prayer 
always banished her grief, and restored 
a sweet serenity to her soul. 


19 


THE MADONNA. 


CHAPTER II. 


MR. WAHL. 


HILE the poor mother bewailed 



T f her lost son as dead, he was more 
than a hundred leagues away — alive and 
in health, in the great city of Vienna, 
where he lived in a princely mansion 
and, besides the dress and attendance oi 
a young nobleman, had what was still 
better — abundant means of acquiring an 
education in every thing necessary for a 
Christian and a man. 

The history of this strange metamor- 
phose is simply this : — Poor Augustus 
had no sooner awakened from sleep, and 
opened his eyes, under the beech-tree, 
than he started off to the wood, to fill his 
basket again. When he had nearly hall 


20 


THE MADONNA. 


filled it, the nuts were not so thick on the 
ground ; and running eagerly forward, 
he came out of the forest suddenly at the 
bank of the river. There he saw a large 
vessel lying at anchor, waiting for some 
passengers. The passengers already on 
board, who were some very wealthy, and 
all of a respectable class, availed them- 
selves of the few moments’ delay, to take 
a walk on the bank. The elder portion 
of the company walked in the green 
fields, on the river’s edge, while the 
children were all busily engaged, gather- 
ing shells and polished pebbles on the 
sand-banks. Augustus no sooner ap- 
peared, than he was instantly surrounded 
by a group of young and laughing faces, 
all prying and peeping to know what he 
had in his basket. They admired those 
bright brown nuts, the like of which they 

had never seen before. Antonia, a lovely 

21 


THE MADONNA. 



little girl, some years younger than Au- 
gustus, exclaimed that she had never 
seen such beautiful, triangular chestnuts 
in all her days 


“ Oh !” said Augustus, who had never 
seen chestnuts, “ these are not the strange 
things you call them ; they are beech- 
nuts, and you can eat them.” He in- 
stantly distributed them in handfuls, to 

the great delight of the young company. 
^22 


THE MADONNA. 


The good boy’s heart overflowed with 
joy, on seeing so many happy and playful 
persons of his own age around him. It 
was a happiness he had never felt before, 
for he seldom met any children of the 
village. He joined in the sports of his 
new acquaintances, and was plentifully 
supplied by them with their own deli- 
cious pears and plums. 

He was most anxious to inspect the 
vessel, for it was the first large one he 
had ever seen near him. “ A floating 
house, much larger,” as he remarked, 
“ than his own house,” was a wonder to 
him. The children brought him into the 
vessel. Antonia showed to him the beau- 
tiful, carpeted cabin, for passengers of the 
first class. 

“ Oh !” said Augustus, in amazement, 
“this is a much grander house than our 
own.” Antonia and her companions then 

23 


THE MADONNA. 


produced all their playthings ; and in the 
display of such witching novelties, and 
the splendor around him, can it be a 
wonder that poor Augustus completely 
forgot his home ? The vessel weighed 
anchor ; her motion was not felt by Au- 
gustus ; and in a few minutes, standing 
out in the middle of the stream, she 
swept majestically down the Danube. 

No person in the vessel had evei 
thought of Augustus. The passengers 
who had been on board all day, supposed 
that he must belong to those who em- 
barked last ; while they, in turn, sup- 
posed he must have been on board before 
them. It was not till late in the evening, 
when Augustus began to cry, and call 
for his mother, that they found they had 
a strange child on board. All in the 
vessel were surprised, and not a little 
alarmed. Some pitied the poor mother 

24 


THE MADO^NA. 


and child ; others could not help laughing 
at the mishap of the young traveller; 
while the sailors stormed and swore, and 
threatened to throw him into the river. 

After some time, the captain came and 
interrogated the child. “ Tell me,” said 
that bluff, sturdy personage, “tell me, 
boy, to what town or village do you 
belong V* 

“I don’t belong to any town or vil 
lage,” answered Augustus. 

“ Singular enough,” remarked the cap- 
tain. “ Where, then, is your house ?” 

“My house,” answered Augustus, “is 
in the wood, not far from the village.” 

“Good,” said the captain. “What’s 
the name of the village ?” 

“ Eh,” said Augustus, “ what could be 
its name but ‘the village?’ I never 
heard my mother give it any name. 
The bell is ringing in the village for 
3 ^ 


THE MADONNA 


d.nner,’ she used to say ; or, ‘ I am goin;? 
^o buy bread in the village.’ ” 

•'^What are your parents’ names?” 
asked the captain. 

“ My father is dead,” answered Augus- 
tus ; “ my mother is called Dora the fish- 
erwoman.” 

“ I know,” said the captain, “ Theo- 
dora is her Christian name ; but what is 
her family name ?” 

“ She has no other name but Dora,” 
answered Augustus ; “ and she often told 
me we ought never call people by any 
name but their own.” 

The captain saw from the simple an- 
swers of the boy, that he had no idea of 
what a family name was, and that it was 
useless to press him farther. He became 
much annoyed, exclaiming, “I wish the 
cuckoo had brought you to any othei 

place, rather than to my vessel.” 

26 


THE MADONNA. 


The tears started to the poor child’s 
eyes, as he answered earnestly, yet with- 
out bitterness, “ No, it was not the 
cuckoo that brought me here ; I did not 
see him at all, — but I often heard him in 
spring.” 

The whole company laughed heartily ; 
but the captain was in a great difficulty, 
for it unluckily happened, that the banks 
by which they were then sailing were 
uninhabited, and covered with forests, so 
that no house was to be seen, far or near. 
Later in the evening, when the sun was 
setting, they caught a glimpse of a 
church-spire in the distance. “I can 
leave the boy,” said the captain, ‘'in 
that village, and let him return to his 
mother ; and, as we could not proceed 
much farther on our voyage this day, we 
may cast anchor here for the night.” 

But Mr. Wahl, Antonia’s father, would 

27 


THE MADONNA. 


aot consent to that. He was a wealthy 
merchant, having large chests of money 
and valuables, with which he, as well as 
his companions, were flying from the 
enemy ; for at this time, all Germany was 
convulsed with the thirty-years’ war. 

“I heartily wish,” said Mr. Wahl, 
“that the poor mother had her little son 
safe at home ; but that cannot be just 
uow. The enemy is in the neighbor- 
hood, marching down to the Danube. A 
few hours’ voyage saves us from the 
danger of falling into their hands, and 
losing all our property. Go on, in the 
name of God.” 

Mr. Wahl was in such trepidation, that 
he pressed the captain to sail on during 
the night, as they were favored with the 
liglit of the full moon. The captain said 
that such a course was unusual ; but, on 
receiving the promise of a large sum of 


THE MADONNA 


money for himself and his crew, they 
sailed the whole night, towards Vienna. 

At sunrise, they arrived at a little vil- 
lage on the bank of the river. The 
captain begged the peasants to take the 
boy, and make inquiries in the country 
around for his mother, and have him sent 
home to her. “ This,” he said, “ would 
be an act of charity to the mother and 
the child.” 

But the peasants answered, “ Who 
knows to whom the child belongs ? Per- 
haps we could never find his mother, and 
be obliged to support him. in these hard 
times, we have poor enough to support, 
and cannot afford to take additional bil*- 
dens on our backs.” 

Some short time after, they saw an- 
other large village at the other side ol 
the river. It was not far from the bank, 

and as it appeared to be a place of some 
3 * 29 


THE MADONNA 


importance, the captain resolved to see 
the parish-priest, or mayor, and intrust 
the child to them. He gave orders to 
make for the bank; but suddenly Mr. 
Wahl started up — “ Hark !” said he ; “ do 
you hear the thunder of the cannon ? 
The enemy are on us ; -we have not a 
moment to lose ; ahead ! ahead ! sail 
on !” 

The captain, who feared that in the 
end the child would be left on his own 
hands, positively refused to listen to Mr. 
Wahl. Angry words arose, which might 
have led to some unpleasant occurrences, 
if Mrs. Wahl, who was a kind and gentle 
lady, had not interfered, suggesting to her 
husband, in a soft and affectionate tone, 
‘•'that if t'ney took charge of the boy, 
they would be doing an act of charity, 
and would avoid these disagreeable con 
lentioDs ” 


THE MADOrSiNA. 


Mr. Wahl at once gladly assented to 
.he suggestion. “ Sail on,” said he to the 
captain ; “ I will take the child, and pro- 
vide for him.” The captain was now 
out of his difficulty, and appeared well 
pleased. The whole company praised 
Mr. Wahl’s generous offer. 

The vessel arrived safely at Vienna, 
where Mr. Wahl purchased a splendid 
house, and commenced business. He 
had the best tutors attending his daugh- 
ter Antonia, and Augustus was allowed 
to attend the lessons. Notwithstanding 
his years, he soon exhibited such un- 
doubted indications of superior talents, as 
surprised all his acquaintances. More- 
over, he was so modest and obedient, so 
friendly and affectionate, and so sincerely 
pious, that Mrs. Wahl and her husband 
loved him as if he were iheir own child. 
That deep sense of piety and the fear ol 

31 


THE MADONNA. 


God, which had been instilled into his 
infant mind by his mother, grew strongei 
every day, and produced its natural ef- 
fects on his whole conduct. 

But what particularly pleased Mr. 
Wahl, was the decided talent Augustus 
showed for business. He was placed by 
his adopted father, in a situation to know 
all that was necessary for a merchant, 
and was then appointed to superintend 
his business. So diligently did he apply 
himself to his duty, that before he had 
attained his twentieth year, he was able 
to conduct, with success, some of the 
most important transactions in his adopt- 
ed father’s business. By degrees Mr. 
Wahl extended his trade ; he had large 
contracts for the army, which, though 
the piofit was small, brought him, in the 
gross, large sums of money. The good 
man felt that the industry and enterprise 

32 


THE MADONNA. 


of Augustus was the mainspring of this 
prosperity ; so he resolved to make him 
his partner. He then gave him his 
daughter Antonia in marriage ; and at 
the close of the war, the emperor of 
Austria gave Mr. Wahl and his son-in- 
law patents of nobility, as a reward for 
their long and valuable services. 

Mr. Wahl and his wife did not long 
survive the peace. They were ardently 
beloved, and piously attended to the last, 
by Augustus and Antonia. They died 
tranquilly, and with the confident hope 
of once more meeting, and forever, their 
beloved children, in the realms of eternal 
light and peace. 

Augustus, or, as he was now called. 
Count von Wahlheim, retired from busi- 
ness, and resolved to purchase a property 
in Bavaria, or Suabia, which had been 
tlie scene of the late desolating war, and 

33 


THE MADONNA. 


where many estates were now otFered 
for sale. Many proposals were made to 
him, but he thought it better to see for 
himself; and, travelling down the coun- 
try, he selected the oeautiful estate of 
Neukirch, where he found every thing to 
suit his taste. He gave orders to have 
the old castle repaired and ornamented, 
and beautifully furnished ; and then re- 
turned to Vienna, to accompany his wife 
and children to tiieir new dwelling. 

When Antonia entered, with her hus- 
band, on her lately acquired property, 
and saw, on every side, the mournful and 
terrible traces of the late war, she was 
deeply affected. Many houses in the 
village were heaps of ruins ; others 
threatened every moment to fall in ; and 
extensive tracts of country lay without a 
vestige of verdure or cultivation. ‘‘ Poor, 
poor people,” said Antonia, the tears 

34 


THE MADONNA. 


streaming from her eyes, “ we must give 
you some relief.” These sentiments 
pleased Augustus, because they were his 
own ; and it was immediately decided 
that a large portion of their capital should 
be devoted to the improvement of their 
estate, and the relief of their tenantry. 
Neat cottages and comfortable farm- 
houses soon rose around the castle. Rich 
corn-fields and verdant pasture amply 
repaid the outlay of capital ; and so con- 
tented and happy were the tenants, that 
the praises of their new landlord were 
always on their lips, and they came in a 
body, to offer a grateful address. But he 
answered : “ I was a poor boy, and God 
has made me a rich man, and conferred 
many other great favors on me. I were 
unworthy of these favors, if I did not 
show my gratitude, by making others 
share my good fortune. I am happy in 


THE MADONNA. 


being able to relieve your wants, and aid 
your industry. To make others happy, 
is the greatest happiness.’’ 


rHE MADONNA. 


CHAPTER III. 

THP WONDEHTUL DISCOVERY. 

W HILE Augustus von WahlLeim 
was living like a great lord, his 
poor mother, Dora, had many hard trials, 
in poverty and affliction, all of which, 
however, she bore with Christian pa- 
tience, and resignation to the will of God. 

Not long after she had lost her son in 
the forest, the banks of the Danube, near 
which she lived, became the seat of war, 
and the enemy’s forces took up their po- 
sition in the forest. Theodora fled from 
her lonely cottage, and took refuge with 
her brother in the village, in her father’s 
house. But she was soon obliged to fly. 
An engagement was fought in the neigh- 
borhood, by the contending armies ; the 
4 37 


THE MADONNA. 


whole village was reduced to ashes, and 
the inhabitants fled in all directions. The- 
odora’s house was burned : her brother 



endeavored to support himself on the 
fishing-smacks, and she look refuge in 
the house of her sister, who lived several 
leagues off. She was kindly received by 
her sister, and helped her in the education 
of her numerous family. They lived to- 

38 


THE MADONNA 


gether in peace, and supported each 
other under the heavy calamities which 
both had suffered from the war. After 
some years, Theodora received a letter 
from her brother, informing her that his 
wife was dead ; that his two daughters 
were married during the war ; and re- 
questing her to return and live with him. 
Theodora returned to her brother. 

As soon as she came to her native vil- 
lage, she visited the forest, and searched 
for the beech-tree, where she had placed 
the image of the Blessed Virgin, which 
she had forgotten in her flight. But 
what a change had come over that well- 
known spot ! The path that led to her 
house had disappeared completely, over- 
grown with long rank grass and thick 
brambles. Large trees stretched out 
their long arms over the spots, which be 
fore had been covered with underwood 


THE MADONNA. 


many old trees, familiar to poor Theo- 
dora, had disappearet'l. Not a trace of 
her cottage was to be seen ; even the 
spot on which it stood, could scarcely be 
recognised. A dark, impenetrable wood 
had closed over and around it. She 
searched for a long time, but fruitlessly, 
for that beech-tree under which she had 
prayed and wept so frequently. She 
worked her way through thorns and 
brambles, and closely examined around 
and around the bark of all the beech- 
trees. “ Though I may not find the pic 
ture,” thought she, “ at least the niche in 
the bark will tell me where it was.” 

“ Don’t be giving yourself useless trou- 
ble,” said a venerable old man, who was 
gathering rotten timber in the forest ; “ I 
think the tree was cut down long ago. 
Things go here in the forest as they do 
with us in the village. Those whom we 

40 


THE MADONNA. 


left after us there as children, are grown 
men, the men are grown old, and the old 
have been long since in their graves. 
The sapling supplants the tree. Every 
thing in this world passes aw-ay, and men 
much faster than trees. We have no 
permanent residence here — we ought to 
fix our thoughts on that which is prepared 
for us, and which knows no change, but 
stands forever.” The old man passed on, 
and Theodoi'a abandoned the hope ol 
finding the tree. 

Count von Wahlheim lived several 
leagues oflf, but this very forest was pait 
of his lately purchased property. It hap- 
pened that he came one day there, to 
distribute wood to the poor tenants on his 
property, for their winter fire. As the 
whole place had grown to a wilderness, 
and was too thickly stocked with wood, 
he resolved to superintend the work in 

4 « 41 


THE MADONNA 


person, in order that the wood might be 
thinned with advantage. He wished also, 
to see with his own eyes, that every poor 
person got his stipulated portion. Orders 
to this effect were issued to the steward, 
and trees were allotted to several poor 
families. Theodora came on behalf of 
her brother, for whom, according to the 
distribution made by the count, the tree 
near which the count was then standing, 
had been marked out. Theodora advan- 
ced and begged the count to excuse her 
brother’s absence, as he was so ill as to 
be confined to bed. The thought never 
entered the count’s head, that this pooi’, 
old, ragged woman was his mother ; and 
as little could she suppose, that the young 
lord, in the full bloom of health and beauty, 
with the diamond ring, and other marks 
of rank on his person, was her lost A ugus- 
lus. But though he did not know her, he 

42 


THE MADONNA 


was stiuck with her appearance, pitied 
ner misfortunes, and ordered her to have 
the tree. 

The forester was unwilling to obey the 
order. “ O,” said he, “ it is a pity to cut 
down this fine old beech ; aspen and pop- 
lar are good enough for the poor. Beech 
wood ought to be reserved for the castle, 
and the tenants.” Count von Wahlheim 
cast a stern and reproving glance at the 
forester. “ The poor,” said he, “ ought not 
to be supplied with that alone, which we 
reject ; they ought to have their share of 
the best, especially in times of need. That 
tree must go to the sister of the sick man ; 
let it be sawed into blocks and planks, at 
my expense, and laid down at their door. 
Fell it this moment, before you lay an 
axe to the wood for my own castle.” 

He retired instantly, to escape the out- 
ourst of Theodora’s gratitude. “May 


THE MADONr^A. 


heaven bless that good master,” said she, 
as she followed him with her eyes, before 
he disappeared. 

Thus did the mother and son, who, 
some twenty years before, had seen each 
other for the last time in this forest, meet 
there now, and not recognise each other 
— and thus were they perhaps on the point 
of being again separated forever, if God’s 
kind providence had not otherwise se- 
lected a sweeter and more significant 
means of uniting them. 

Two foresters instantly plied their axes 
at the trunk of the tree. It came to the 
ground with a tremendous crash ; and the 
men shouted aloud with amazement, “a 
miracle, a real miracle.” The timber had 
split into fragments near the root, where it 
was rotten ; a large portion of the bark 
was peeled off — and there, fixed in the 
tree, the men discovered the image which 

44 


THE MADONNA 


Theodora had placed there. The colors 
were still fresh and brilliant, and the gilt 
frame gleamed in the sunbeams, reflecting 
a dazzling lustre on the image. The for- 
esters were young men, and had never 
heard the history of the image. “ This,” 
said they to each other, ‘‘ surpasses our un- 
derstanding : how that beautiful image of 
the Mother of God could have been fixed 
here ! There is no mark on the bark of the 
tree over it : that spot was covered with 
bark and overgrown with moss, like the 
other trees of the forest. No man ever 
heard of such a thing — it is a miracle.” 

Count von Wahlheim, who was not 
many paces distant, overheard the ex- 
clamation* of the two men, and leaving 
the persons to whom he had been dis- 
tributing wood, he came and took the 
image in his hand. Having examined it 
attentively, ‘‘Really it is beautiful,” he 


THE MADONNA 


remarked: “it is a masterpiece. That 
pale sorrowful face, those tranquil eyes 
raised so devoutly to heaven, are ev 
quisitely finished — and the soft texture 
and colors of the dark blue mantle, are true 
as life. It is obvious that the image must 
have been placed in the tree by some 
pious person, who cut a niche in the trunk, 
over which, as the tree grew, the bark 
closed, completely concealing the image, 
after the lapse of some years.” 

Suddenly he turned pale — his hand 
trembled — his whole body shook with 
some painful emotion: “Wonderful, in- 
deed,” he exclaimed, as he sunk on the 
trunk of the fallen tree. He had inspected 
the image closely, and discovered on the 
back of it the following inscription . 
“Here, under this tree, I saw my only 
son, Augustus, for the last time, on the 
10th of October, in the year of our Lord. 


THE MADONNA. 


U>32. God be with him, wherever he is 
—and as He consoled Mary, when she 
stood at the foot of the cross, may He 
also console an afflicted mother — Theo- 
dora Sommer.” 

The thought flashed like lightning 
across his mind. “ I am that lost child : 
name, year, and date, agree — my mother 
put that image here.” 

Just at that moment his mother was 
passing by. Having waited for some 
time in the forest, to go home in company 
with one of her neighbors, she heard that 
the image had been discovered in the 
trunk of a tree. “ Oh ! sir,” said she, 
coming up, “ that image is mine : give 
it to me, I implore you. Look, there’s my 
name on it — written thus, at my own 
request, by our excellent pastor. The 
other wmrds were also written by him.” 

“ Alas !” said she, bursting into tears, 

47 


THE MADO^'xNA. 


as she gazed on the fallen tree, ** is .his, 
then, that beech under which I saw my 
beloved Augustus sleeping so soft and 
sweetly, before he was snatched away 
from me. Many a time I passed by it, 
since my return from my flight, and yet I 
could not recognise it. The trunk had 
grown so thick — O my son, once more I 
behold that spot where I saw you last — 
but never — never more can I see you in 
this world. I feel as if I were standing 
over your grave.” The tears choked her 
utterance — and she could say no more. 

Count von Wahlheim, who had been so 
much affected a few moments ago, on 
reading his mother’s name on the picture, 
was now almost completely overpowered 
on beholding her. His heart burned 
within him ; and he could have sprung for- 
ward and locked her in his arms. But he 
restrained himself — he knew that the sud- 


THE MADONNA. 


den shock might kill his beloved mother 
He took her hand affectionately, dried her 
tears -with his own handkerchief— spoke 
some kind and consoling words — and, by 
degrees, gave her to understand that her 
son was still living ; that he knew him 
well — and that, no doubt, she would soon 
know him. After these, and similar pre- 
cautions, he said the word at length: “I 
am your lost son.” “ You!” was the only 
answer of the poor mother, as she sunk 
upon his breast — utterly unable to give 
other expression to her feelings. They 
stood for a considerable time locked in 
each other’s arms, while all the bystanders 
wept and shared in their emotions. 

“Dearest mother,” said the count, at 
length breaking silence, “ God has fulfilled 
for you that prayer, which you had in- 
scribed for me on the picture. He nas 
been with me, and poured out on me some 

5 49 


THE MADONNA. 


of his choicest blessings. He has also 
fulfilled that prayer which you had writ- 
ten for yourself. He has consoled you aa 
he consoled Mary. He has restored to 
your arms your only son, whom you had 
mourned as dead. On this spot we were 
separated, and here, on the same spot, we 
meet. He preserved that image in the 
tree, and revealed it to us at the very mo- 
ment that it could enable us to recognise 
each other. To us, as to so many others, 
has He clearly proved that He knows 
how to do all things for the best.” 

“ Oh ! yes,” said the mother, “ our good 
God has done it. He took you away 
from me at a time, that, perhaps, my 
aflection would have spoiled you by ex- 
cessive indulgence. He restored you tc 
my arms in the hour of my need, to be an 
angel of comfort to me, and to this whole 
neighborhood. All his ways are wisdom 


50 


THE MADONNA. 


and love. Blessed be His name:” a 
prayer which was warmly echoed by ah 
the bystanders. 

Count von Wahlheim then ordered his 
forester to send word to Theodora’s 
brother, that she and her son would go 
visit him the following day. Theodora, 
herself, earnestly reminded her neighbors 
that they must take care of her poor 
brother in her absence. The count’s 
coach was ordered — he placed his mother 
in it, and seating himself by her side, they 
drove off to the castle. Fresh joys here 
awaited poor Theodora. She felt some 
shame in appearing in her old clothes 
before her daughter-in-law, but Antonia 
was too noble-minded to attach import- 
ance to trifles. She flew with open arms 
to Theodora, embraced her most affec- 
tionately, and expressed her unfeigned 
toy on finding the mother of her belovea 

51 


THE MADOiSJNA. 


husband. Theodora wept for joy — but 
when her two grand-children, Ferdinand 
and Maria, appeared, in the bloom of 
happy and innocent childhood, like two 
little angels, she was overpowered with 
the happy thoughts that crowded on her 
soul. “ Great,” she exclaimed, ‘‘ as were 
once my sorrows, my joys are now still 
greater. I can only weep — pray — and 
thank my God. O ! my good God, since 
even on this earth, thou canst thus change 
sorrow into joy, what must be the case 
in heaven — inexpressible, indeed, must be 
the happiness that awaits us there.” 

Next morning Count von Wahlheim 
ordered his coach, and visited, with his 
mother, her sick brother. Theodora re- 
mained with him until he had recovered, 
when she returned to the castle, for her 
son and daughter-in-law said she should 
live with themselves. All her brothers 


5S 


THE MADONNA 


and sisters were well provided for— 
Count von Wahlheim and his relations, 
being too good and sensible to be ashamed 
of their poor relations. They, moreover, 
gave a large party, to which all were 
invited, on the occasion of Theodora’s 
taking up her abode in the castle. The 
simple and honest relations were de- 
lighted with the kindness and love mani- 
fested towards them, and many a happy 
tear glistened in their eyes, at this won- 
derful interposition of Divine Providence 
in their favor. 

Augustus and Antonia took this oppor- 
tunity of making themselves acquainted 
with the necessities of each of them, and 
then provided them liberally, but not 
prodigally, with that sort of help which 
would best suit the position of each, and 
enable him to advance in the world. 

The little picture was placed in the 

5 * 53 


THE MADONNA. 


most conspicuous part of the house. “ I 
must always be to us,” said the count, 
“an admonition of gratitude and con- 
fidence in God’s mercy. That look of 
Mary’s, raised so fondly to neaven, will 
tell us to do likewise For among all our 
dangers, and the sorrows of this life, what 
can more powerfully sustain us in virtue, 
or console us in grief, than a pious raising 
of our eyes to heaven ?” 




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"Fred thougtit he had 
ously.” — ^Page 11. 


never feasted 


so sumptu- 





i 







ranger at Grunenthal. His father received 
a letter one morning, which he was to carry 
from Herr von Grunenthal to Rauhen- 
stein, a castle that lay beyond very high 
mountains, and in the heart of a thick 
forest. 

** It will be a hard journey,"^ said the 

7 


THE CAKES. 


father, especially as the hurt 1 got the 
other clay in the foot, when we were hunt- 
ing, is not yet healed. From here to Rau- 
henstein is three good leagues. But since 
our good master orders it, I must obey.” 

But Fred offered to carry the letter. 

Send me, dear father,” he said. “ The 
whole road, I know, goes through a forest, 
but I do not mind that. I know it well 
from this to our own bounds, and can easily 
find out the rest of it, and safely give the 
letter into the hands of Herr von Rauhen- 
stein.” 

“ Very well,” said the father ; “ give the 
letter into his own hands — you know him 
well. There is a large sum of money in 
the letter ; perhaps you may get something 
for your trouble.” He then described the 
road for Fred, from their own bounds to 
Rauhenstein. 

The little fellow buckled on his Iiunting* 


THE CAKES. 


pouch, and slinging his fowlingpiece ovet 
his shoulder, started on his journey. 

He arrived safe at the castle, and told 
the servants that he had been directed to 
deliver the letter into the master’s own 
hand. A servant led him up the broad 
stone steps, into a splendid apartment, 
where von Rauhenstein was engajjed with 
a party of officers at the card-table. Fred 
made his best bow to the gentlemen, and 
delivered his letter, in which, it appeared, 
there were one hundred gold pieces. Herr 
von Rauhenstein went to his writing-desk, 
and wrote a few lines, acknowledging the 
receipt of the money. “ All right,” said 
he, sitting down in a hurry to the caid- 
table. “You can retire now — no other 
answer is at present necessary — it will 
follow you.” 

With a heavy heart poor Fred returned 
down the broad stone stairs; for ^he was 

9 


THE CAKES 


hungry and thirsty, and quite tired. Bii 
as lie was passing through the court, he 
was met by tlie cook, who was coming 
out of the garden, with a large knife in 
one hand and cauliflowers in the other. 
She knew by the poor boy’s face, the state 
of his feelings. 

“ Come with me, little forester,” said 
she, kindly, “ and I will give you some 
bread and a drink of good beer. You 
might otherwise faint upon the road — you 
are far from home — and there is not a 
single house on the way. You must not 
take it ill of our master, that he offered 
you nothing to eat: he does not think of 
such things ; yet he finds no fault when 
we give something to people.” 

The cook led Fred into the kitchen, 
where the large fire was blazing on the 
hearth. “ Lay aside your pouch and fowl- 

ingpiece, and sit down here,” said she^ 
10 


THE CAKES. 


poiiiting to a little table in the corner of 
the kitchen. She then brought him plenty 
of soup and meat, vegetables and bread, 
and a small pot of beer. Fred thought he 
had never been feasted so sumptuously. 
He was refreshed and ready for his jour- 
ney ; but before he started he said to the 
cook, one hundred times, at least, “God 
reward you and that, too, with as much 
reverence as if she had been the lady of 
the castle. He even kissed her hand, al- 
though she tried to prevent him. 

Happy as a prince, Fred set out on his 
journey. But when he had been nearly 
a half hour on the road, he saw a squirrel 
in an open space in the forest. The bttle 
animal was quite a rarity to him, for lie 
had scarcely ever seen one in the forest 
of Grunenthal. Fred was very young 
and, perhaps, the good beer had got into 
nis head, but, at all events, he resolved to 


THE CAKES. 


take the squirrel alive. He flung a piece 
of a rotten bough at the little animal, and 
started in full chase, from oak to oak, into 
the depths of the black forest, where he 
lost sight of his game, and what was much 
more serious, lost the road. He wandered 
about during the rest of the day, and half 
the succeeding night, through the thick 
forest, till, at last, sinking with hunger and 
fatigue, he crept beneath some low bushes, 
and fell into a troubled sleep. He rose in 
the morning, more faint than he had been 
before he lay down. He looked around, 
and advanced he knew not whither. The 
place was utterly unknown to him. The 
wild deer, starting up and bounding off in 
terror when they saw him, convinced him 
that he must be in the heart of some un- 
frequented wood. A herd of swine cross- 
ed his path, and among them a huge boar, 

which tlv’eatened him with its sharp tushes, 
12 


THE CAKES 


and made the poor boy scream in agony 
and fly for his life. He continued to wan- 
der about until noonday, when, unable to 
move farther, he tottered and fell exhausted 
to the ground. He cried and called as 
loud as he could, but there was no answer 
except the echo of his voice in the silent 
forest. He could nowhere find a berry 
or even a drop of water to quench his 
hunger and thirst. He cast himself faint 
and despairing at the foot of a pine-tree. 
He earnestly prayed to God not to let 
him famish in the forest. Tormented 
by hunger, he searched in his pouch, to 
find, if possible, a few crumbs of the bread 
which he had brought with him from home, 
and eaten on the road to Rauhenstein. 
But what was his joy — his rapture, on find, 
ing a large piece of cake and some juicy 
pears. “ Oh !” said he, “ it was the cook 
put these here, without my knowledge.” 


IHE CAKES. 


The poor boy shed tears of gratitude, and 
resolved that he would be always charita- 
ble to the needy, especially if they were 
strangers ; and also, that if ever he were 
rich enough, he certainly would not forget 
that kindness of the good cook. “ Under 
God,” said he, “ it was she that saved my 
life. If she had not given me the cake 
and pears, I should have perished here in 
the wild forest.” 

Fred rose, refreshed and strengthened, 
and proceeded onward again with renew- 
ed courage. He walked on in the direction 
of Grunenthal, as well as he could judge 
by the position of the sun, and after having 
advanced for about a league, he heard the 
cheering sounds of the woodman’s axe in 
the distance. Hurrying on in the direc- 
tion of the sounds, he found two men cut- 
ting down a la^ge pine-tree. They point- 
ed out the road to Grunenthal, where he 


14 


TilE CAKES. 


arrived safely to the great joy of his pa- 
rents, who had been dreadfully alarmed on 
his account. 

His father reproved him severely, and 
gave him good advice. “ Thus it is,” said 
he, among other things, “ when men allow 
themselves to be drawn away from the 
light road to follow their pleasures. You 
might have perished in that wild wood far 
from your father’s house, without the poor 
consolation even of catching that squirrel. 
Our way through life is like a road through 
a wild forest, where many a pleasure, like 
that alluring little animal, seeks to entice 
us from the path of virtue. As I, dear 
Fred, faithfully described to you the right 
road through the forest, so God points out 
to us in his commandments the true path 
for our pilgrimage through this world. Let 
no earthly pleasure ever seduce you to the 
right or the left from the way of virtue 

15 


THE CAKES. 


One false step might ruin you forever, ana 
prevent you from entering your true Fa- 
ther's house beyond the grave. 

“ The love of pleasure," he continued, 
“ perverts the heart of man, and makes 
him insensible to noble and generous feel- 
ings. Herr von Rauhenstein, with whom 
you are so much displeased, is far from 
being a bad man. But he was so much 
taken up with his play, that he never 
thought either of giving you some refresh- 
ment, though you stood so much in need 
of it, or some money, though the hundredth 
part of what he had staked that morning, 
would have sent you home as happy as a 
prince. But guard yourself against that, 
which displeases you so much in another , 
let your pleasure or your own will never 
engage you, so as to make you insensible 
to the wants and happiness :)f others. Imi- 
tate whatever you find good in others ; be 
16 


THE CAKES. 


ever as kind and generous to all men, as 
Rosalie, the cook, was to you in the castle 
of Rauhenstein.’' 

Fred grew up a good forester, faithful 
and true to his employer, open and generous 
to all, and without one stain on his good 
name. But he was particularly remarkable 
for his kindness and charity to travellers 
and the poor. He never forgot Rosalie’s 
kindness. He went to the castle, once, to 
tell her how much she had done for him, 
but she had left the service, and no person 
could give him any account of her. From 
that day forward he never got any intelli- 
gence of his kind benefactress. 

In the course of some years, Fred was 
promoted for his integrity and skill to the 
office of chief huntsman under the king’s 
woodranger, and afterwards was made 
forester of Tannek, one of the most lu- 
crative posts in the gift of his master 
2 * 17 


THE CAKES. 


After his marriage, he often told his wife, 
who was as benevolent as himself, of many 
adventures of his boyish days, and, especial- 
ly, how he had been saved from certain 
death in the forest, by the kindness of Ro- 
salie. They resolved that since they could 
not find her, they would prove their sense 
of her goodness, by as liberal charity tc 
travellers and the poor, as their means 
allowed. They had a good opportunity 
of indulging their charitable dispositions, 
as the forester’s lodge, in which they lived, 
lay on the border of the forest near the 
high road. 

Fred’s wife went one very sultry after- 
noon to bring a glass of water from the 
well. There she found a poor woman 
sitting on the bench which hei husband 
had made under the shady pines, near the 
well, for the accommodation of travellers. 

The strange woman, though clean and 

18 


THE CAKES. 



neatly dressed, was evidently poor, and 
appeared very tired and unhappy A 
wicker basket and her walking-stick lay 
near her on the bench. Struck by the 
mild and wo-begone expression of her 


countenance, Fred’s wife saluted' her cor- 
dially, and invited her to the lodge to take 
some refreshment. The stranger grate- 
fully accepted the kind offer, and entered 

the house. Fred’s wife served up a rem- 

ly 


THE CAKES. 


nant of roast venison, and poured out foi 
her a glass of beer. The two soon became 
so sociable that the stranger told the whole 
history of what was weighing so heavily 
on her heart. 

“ I live/' said she, “ about twelve leagues 
from this. My husband is a gunsmith, and 
was able to earn much money by making 
rifles, muskets, and pistols. He worked 
day and night, so that we were able not 
only to support ourselves and the two chil- 
dren with whom heaven has blessed us, 
but also to lay aside something for the 
future. But latterly it was the will of God 
to send us many hard trials. My hus- 
band’s hand was hurt so severely by the 
bursting of a new musket which he was 
trying, that he has not been able to work 
during the last year. The war which 
ravaged our neighborhood had a ready 

stripped us of the greater part of our 
ao 


THE CAKES. 


property. The doctor’s biil still continued 
a heavy drain, and as we had no money 
coming in, we were badly able to meet 
it — but, to crown all our misfortunes, we 
lost our only cow by the murrain. We 
had already raised money on the credit of 
our lands and. house, and had no means 
left of replacing our cow, as the neighbors 
would not lend the money. Without a 
cow we could not live : so I resolved to 
undertake a long journey to my brother, 
hoping that he would give the money. 1 
did make that long journey, and I am now 
on my way home. I told him my hard 
case, and begged his help. Twenty or 
thirty crowns would have bought a cow 
for me. My brother was willing enough 
to help me, but his wife would not allow 
him to give me a penny. She was dis- 
pleased with me, she said, because I had 

married a man who had no property. AD 

21 


THE CAKES. 


I got was a small sum, that my lioih&i 
slipped secretly into my hand, but it will 
hardly cover half the expenses of m / jour- 
ney. But it was all the pocket-money 
he had then at his disposal. Alas !” she 
sighed, wiping the tears from her eyes, “ I 
pity my brother, and still more, my poor 
husband and children. They are anxiously 
praying for my return, and expecting some 
help : what a grief it will be to them, when 
I meet them with empty hands !” 

At this moment the forester returned 
home, with his bag well stocked with game. 
He saluted the poor stranger kindly. His 
wife told him how she had invited her to 
come in, and what a melancholy tale had 
just been told. 

“ Right, right, Dora,’’ said Fred, “ it 
makes my heart glad, to see you acting 
as I would, consoling the poor stranger 

and giving her a share of what God has 
22 


THE CAKES. 


given to us. Generosity, especially to 
Stranger’S and travellers, is a most sacred 
duty. 

“ And good reason I have to say so,’* 
said he, taking a chair and sitting down 
near the woman, while his wife placed 
a glass of ale on the table before him 
He then told his boyish adventure in the 
forest, and how he had been saved from 
starvation, by the kindness of Rosalie, the 
good cook of Rauhenstein. 

“ Good God exclaimed Rosalie, clasp- 
ing her hands, “ I am that cook. Rosalie 
is my name. Frederic is yours — and your 
father was forester of Grunenthal. I can 
tell you some particulars you omitted in 
your story. The food that I set before 
you consisted of soup, green peas and car- 
rots, with smoked beef — and the beer-glass 
had a pewter cover, with a stag stamped 
on it. which particularly struck your fancy 

23 


THE CAKES. 


ifou were very much displeased with Herr 
von Rauhenstein, and remarked that he was 
true to Jiis name, but I told you he was a 
better man than he appeared to be. When 
you left me, you kissed my hand, out ol 
gratitude, but against my will. Words 
cannot tell how happy I am, that the bit 
of cake saved your life, and that I see you 
now so happy and independent. Wonder- 
lul are the ways of God — I should ncvei 
have recognised you. The slender, little 
forester is now grown an able and fine- 
looking man, and God, as I see, has blessed 
you in ail things.'' 

The forester now expressed his joy on 
meeting his old friend, and bade her a 
thousand welcomes. “ I thought I knew 
you," said he, “ when I met you first, but 
I could not distinctly remember who you 
were or where I had seen you. The 
thought struck me, that you might be 

24 


THE CAKES. 


:ny friend Rosalie, though time had nrade 
come change in you. To be sure of the 
fact, I told you my adventure in the forest. 
God be praised ! I have found you at last. 
I am the happiest man under the sun. — 
You must not stir this day. — Come, Dora, 
—the best in your kitchen and cellar for 
our friend.” 

Rosalie pressed hard to be allowed to 
depart. “ By to-morrow evening I must 
be at home,” said she. “ Now that the 
heat of the day is over, I will walk a 
few leagues farthei — the twelve leagues 
would be too long a journey for to-mor- 
row.” 

“ That matter can be easily managed,” 
said Fred. “ To-morrow morning I will 
harness the pony to my light wagon, 
and drive you as far as I can. I would 
drive you to your own door, if 1 were 
not obliged to attend the prince with the 


THE CAKES 


hunting- party that are on a visit witli 
him/’ 

Fred’s w^ife was as happy as himself, on 
finding Rosalie. There was no resisting 
their united entreaties. She consented to 
stop that night. The hostess prepared a 
supper in her best style, and at the end of 
the meal produced a large cake, prepared 
in the same way as that which Rosalie 
had given to Fred. It was wreathed with 
garlands of the most beautiful flowers, and 
in the centre, the words “ To gratitude,” 
were formed with white sugar, in imitation 
of pearls. 

“ Oh !” said Rosalie, “ don’t cut that beau- 
tiful cake. I have dined so heartily I will 
not touch it.” 

“ Very well,” said the hostess, “ but then 
you must put the cake in your basket, and 
caiTy it home in the morning to your chil' 
dren.” 

as 


THE CAKES. 


Fred had ordered his best wine from 
the cellar ; and he and his wife drank to 
the health and happmess of Rosalie and 
her family, and Rosalie must pledge them. 
“ For had it not been for you,” said the 
forester, “we should not now be sitting 
here, and this house, in which I and my 
Dorothy live so happily together, would 
have other tenants.” 

Next morning, at break of day, Fred 
was busy preparing to escort his old friend 
to her family. His wife had a good break- 
fast on the table ; and when all was ready, 
she put the large cake into Rosalie’s bas- 
ket, together with other provisions for the 
road, and some few presents for the chil- 
dren. Fred accompanied Rosalie half the 
journey. When he took leave of her, he 
promised to visit her as soon as possible, and 
to get his fire-arms repaired by her husband, 
— a promise which he faithfully performed 

27 


THE CAKES. 


Rosalie continued her journey in goon 
spirits. When she approached her house, 
she saw her two children, William and 
Theresa, advancing on the road to meet 
her. When they saw her, they sprung 
forward with joyful cries, and asked what 
she had in the basket. “ Oh, wait until we 
reach home,” said she, “ you must not be 
so impatient and curious.” 

Her husband met her at the door, and 
all entered together. Rosalie told the haro 
reception she had got from her sister-in- 
law, and also announced the sad news, 
that she brought home no money. Her 
husband was sadly disappointed ; nor could 
all she said of the happy night she spent 
with the forester, dispel his gloom. Rosalie 
opened her basket, and produced the cake. 
The sight of it made the children forget 
aU their sorrows ; but when the father saw 


THE CAKES. 


them clapping their hands, and loudly ex- 
pressing their joy, he could scarcely re- 
press his tears. 

“ What good is the oake,” said he ; “where 
are we to get twenty or thirty guilders, to 
buy a cow 

But lo — when the mother tried to cu\. 
the cake for the children, the knife stuck 
so fast in it, that all her strength could not 
divide it. 

“ This is a singular cake,” said she ; “ it 
must have been baked too much.” She 
broke the crust — and the first thing that 
met her eye, were two thalers of gold — • 
and below them, in order, a dozen others. 

Fred’s joy on finding the cake in his 
pouch, was not greater than hers, when 
she saw the glittering coin. “Gracious 
heaven !” said she, “ Frederic told his 
wife to put them in the cake, to enable 
3 ^ 


39 


THE CAKES. 


iis to buy a cow, and to raise us fronr. 
poverty.” 

“ The gold is worth thirty-two guilders 
and some crowns,” said little William, 
who was learning his table of coin in 
school ; “ it will buy a fine cow for 
us.” 

“ And then we can have milk and butter 
again,” said Theresa, hopping about and 
clapping her hands. 

But the father took off his cap, and 
thanked God with tears, and the mother 
and children joined in his prayer. “ That 
piece of cake whicn you gave, many 
years ago, to the little boy,” said he, 

was capital well laid out ; we receive 
it back now a hundred, nay, a thousand 
fold.” 

“ Yes,” said the mother, “ and the 
wnallest act of kindness, to one of oui 


30 


THE CAKES. 


brethren, will be much more amply re- 
warded in heaven.’* 

“ Oh, my dear children,” added the fa- 
ther, “ let us be always merciful, that we 
may obtain mercy.” 




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X 


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with Mass Prayers. 3 O 
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“ “ 2d “ 25 

3d “ 03 

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2 


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3 


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containing about 40 liumorous and pa- 
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Only 100 

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4 


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“ “ Winefride 60 

“ “ Louis lO 

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5 


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6 


W 14 7 













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